


The Republic Of Stars

by High_Pretension



Series: The Republic Of Stars [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dark for theme, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Homophobia, M/M, Major triggers, Multi, Not Happy, Poor Charles, Psychological Torture, Torture, please heed warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/High_Pretension/pseuds/High_Pretension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Known human sympathizer and pacifist, Charles Xavier is on the wrong side of the War for Mutant Liberation; A fact that becomes agonizingly clear as Erik Lehnsherr and the First Mutant Regime take down the human government and unravels life as Charles knew it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> I've tweaked timeline and chronology for this fic; the events of this story are set in the modern era. Several characters who are much younger than Charles and Erik in the X-Men franchise appear alongside them here.
> 
> PS: This is slightly updated from the version I posted first. Thanks goes out to evil_ink and Nicole for pointing out the confusing parts.

_**0** _

_Prologue:_

_Charles has long known he’s on the wrong side of the war by the time they come for him in white masks with holes for eyes. Out of habit, he opens the door without caution and they file into his living room. He knows some of them by voice. Some he knows because they’re familiar enough; the mask is celebration, war paint and symbol all at once, it seems. It is only then after the first shock of being confronted by the not-faces fades away that Charles discovers he can’t read any of the minds flocking before him._

_“It must be strange for you. Is it more like having your tongue yanked out or you know, like going blind from old age?” One of them stretches out on his sofa, gesturing politely for Charles to take the armchair opposite him._

_“It’s a bit like both, I’m afraid, William.” The crowd titters, Charles is sure their faces must be cowering in dismay. They’ll be wondering how many other names he’s figured out. But not Stryker, who chuckles pointedly and rifts through the mail on his coffee table. “I told you he’ll not disappoint.” Stryker states to the world in general; a world that is, for Charles rapidly shrinking to the apartment and how fast he can get out the door they forgot to close._

_“And so easy on the eyes…” A woman, her mask shining new, peers down at Charles. “Such a shame.”_

_“I think I’d like you all to get the fuck out of my house, now.” Charles stares directly at her and at eight other faces exactly like hers, expressionless and blank. This sets them going, all of them laughing in tandem._

_“Oh, we plan to leave soon…but there’s just one thing we’d like you to do…” Stryker snaps his fingers and two burly shapes come at him. Charles kicks out, hardly caring what he connects with. He feels something soft bend against his heels, a groin or the cartilage on a knee. A roar reaches him, it’s Stryker who pins him down, someone’s got his feet. Charles claws at the nearest faces. And then a fist gets him, once square in his eye and then again and again on the side of his face. The woman laughs like she has tears in her eyes, only Stryker looks up, Charles sees in the blur of motion around him. Their masks certainly seem to be in love with each other._

_“Fucking mutant bitch…” Someone growls at Charles, yanking his face up by the hair. “He’s gay too. Pervert, I’ve seen him down at that gay bar…”_

_“Well, I say we carve the real him out…” Stryker pulls out a knife, and Charles remembers the mutant child left with a big bleeding M on her back and both her ears cut out._

_“How about an M on his back and a G on his forehead?” He thinks aloud, his eyes alight with happiness as he sees his handiwork play out in his head._

_“Wait, he’s a homo?” The woman trills, staying Stryker’s hand with a touch. “Wait…”_

_They close a tight circle around Charles, the woman fluttering with excitement. “I have just the thing for you…” She bends close to Charles’s ear, and a silver cross falls out of her dress. She dances her way out of the apartment without another word._

_“Would it kill her to tell us-“ A man begins to voice his protest at her flippancy, when she returns with a small bag in one hand and a pink lump of cloth in another. Charles almost sobs when she carefully shuts the door behind her._

_“Bring him in here…” She points to the bedroom. Stryker eases himself off Charles and pulls him to his feet. Charles does the one thing he can and digs in his heels; he does not count on the shove that sets him going where Stryker wants to take him._

_“The rest of you wait here. You’ll love it…No peeking.” The woman’s sing-song trails their wake._

_“What’re you doing? Please, what’re you doing?” Charles asks the woman when he’s in the bedroom and she’s tearing at his clothes. Stryker’s knife comes from behind him to sit menacingly at his throat, stilling him completely. She slides his shirt off him and doesn’t care that he flinches when his pants are pooling at his feet. Charles can barely see with the tears swimming in his eyes. She takes his hand and leads him to the dressing mirror, a regular piece of vanity, Charles cannot bring himself to look. His face is forced, with a cramped hold on his jaws, into a smoldering pout._

_“Luscious red for you, I think.”_

_For a moment, Charles does not comprehend. She reaches into her bag and picks out lipstick. Stryker laughs out in surprise. Charles strains to get away, only to have Stryker hold his head steady for the woman. She pauses to consider the task at hand and with a cock of the head, begins. She takes her time, lining his lips and then filling them out._

_“There…” She says, dabbing the final touches on. Stryker smiles with all the mirth he can conceive of._

_“Now, that hair…” She is generous with the hair gel, soothing his hair down tidily. It’s over, Charles thinks, she’s done. But then she picks up the cloth and Stryker bellows with joy._

_“It’s a Vera Wang.” She chirps at Charles. It’s pink and simple, a linen frock. In the mirror, Charles can see his face breaking or maybe it’s his heart breaking and he can’t see it. He struggles in vain to make it harder for her, but it doesn’t matter, she has her way in the end. When it’s on, Stryker zips him up and squeezes his hips after. Charles is really crying now._

_“Pretty, isn’t he?” The woman asks, leaning over Charles’s shoulders to kiss Stryker._

_“Come on, don’t be shy…come meet the family.” It’s infinitely easier to be lead along when one’s limbs fail, Charles finds. He listens to the mocking laughter that erupts the moment he steps into full view. A short, flabby man with bad breath touches the hem of the frock, threatening to pull it up. Charles whimpers pushing his hand away. There’s a burst of giggles and wolf whistling._

_“Baby, do you dance?” Someone asks, and hums a wedding song, Charles knows this one._

_“He asked you a question…” Another voice growls and Charles has to shake his head quietly for no. There’s a clamor of protest, they want to be entertained. A wad of notes flicked in his direction lands squarely at his feet._

_But Stryker puts up his almighty hand. “Enough!” He yells. “This has been fun...but…”_

_Charles sees the glint of the knife. Several other sharp points of light pop up in the crowd before him._

_“All good things must come to an end…” Charles shrinks to a corner._

_“Relax, at least you won’t have to be here when the war ends and we fucking burn all of you alive.”_

_There is nowhere for Charles to go._

**i**

“What started with Klaus Schmidt in Germany, Magneto finishes in New York.” The TV blares.

Charles sits himself down because he knows what’s coming.

“The last human stand is down!” a triumphant woman proclaims, “Bolivar Trask has been declared missing in action.”

Behind her, the Pentagon is barely recognizable with angry, buzzing mutant soldiers stomping on its ruins. Unknown human faces scamper away and are dragged back into the burning building. The camera pans to the horrified crowds, a clear line away from the rabble of cheering mutants leading a chant. Charles frowns when he realizes they’re calling for Magneto, the man with his cape and helmet now stepping out. The human section snaps backwards in a wave. Fear, even though it seems far from Charles, is awe inspiring to see.

“I say this to the humans, the civilians.” Magneto speaks. An unnatural hush falls. “Your soldiers and leaders have failed. Your battle is done. We have won.”

The mutants erupt in a frenzy of energy. Without even thinking about it, Charles wraps his own mind down to stop the curious mix of disappointment and anxiety that eats into him. Magneto puts a hand up. “But we are not the people we replaced. We are not petty humans. You can have your lives back. Only…adhere to us.”

Emma Frost emerges from behind him. It seems as though her lips barely move: “Surrender and we will be merciful. Every human, every last man, woman and child must register at our offices here. Just like every mutant did in your reign of oppression.”

Magneto’s voice returns with timber. “To Mystique and her pro-human rebels and to the human sympathizers, I have just this to say...”

And Charles knows from the pursing of Magneto’s lips that it will be nothing easy to hear.

“We know who you are and we will find you.”

Charles feels the first firing of panic. Magneto and his cape swirls back into the shadows of the Pentagon, a grinning Emma Frost flanking him.

Charles turns the TV off.

**ii**

The first time Erik lays eyes on Charles, he craves and craves and craves. It doesn’t matter that he is a human sympathizer. It doesn’t even matter that Charles is neater than the bloody Supreme Court, and probably smells like mint coffee; Erik smells like rust and blood, fresh from the war.

Emma Frost smiles knowingly. “Must I do everything around here?” Erik knows she’s finding her secret ways into the man’s head. “Interesting, he’s a telepath…don’t worry, he’s not dangerous…he thinks humans should be our equals…”

Charles swivels around from where he thinks he’s inconspicuous in the milling queues, glancing rapidly between Erik and Frost.

“And he will never say yes to you.”

Erik loves the subtle slide of Charles’s face into misery and dark alarm.

**iii**

Erik knows when the time is right.

“You will take only the most essential items. Clothes, medicines…” Charles listens wide-eyed and confused to an officer of the First Mutant Regime; Erik thinks the name slightly comical.

“He’s not going to the camps.” Erik supplies casually, walking up to hover behind Charles.

The officer springs out of his chair to show how respectful he is. “Magneto…”

Charles does not move to look up over his shoulders. Erik doesn’t mind.

The officer starts to rustle through important looking papers. “He’s a…a class four telepath, sir…”

“Thank god you’re all on teleblockers…Send him to Azazeal.” Erik is curt.

This is when Charles turns slowly to look at him. And Erik knows there’s nothing more to be said. He leaves.

**iv**

Charles reels, breathing in acrid sulfuric smoke before the first light of dawn hits him. “This is my street…” Charles sags in relief. He doesn’t know where he expected to be taken instead, but he remembers what was in Magneto’s head.

“I…I can go?” He waits for confirmation from Azazeal.

“Which one is yours?” Azazeal asks and starts walking to the building Charles points at. Charles, too, follows. A few people are already on the streets, humans and mutants, most of them curious enough to stare and recognize Azazeal. That’s all it takes for them to vanish into their houses. Charles is sure there’ll be no help at hand, no one who will protest if Azazeal really is going to take him away somewhere. He stops at the door. “I don’t know where my keys-“ He is whisked away in a burning deluge of smoke and finds himself in his apartment.

“That’s probably for the best. You won’t need the keys.” Azazeal clicks his heels together. “You don’t leave this house for anything till our review committee meets with you. And from the look of things, that’ll be very soon-”

“But…I have a job…”

“I don’t think you have a job anymore.” Azazeal is deadpan.

“I’m not…” Charles’s voices cracks, despite him throwing all his will into keeping it steady. “Magneto...he can’t…”

“I think you’ll find he can.”

Charles does not know what to say to this. After all, he’s pretty sure he’ll find that Magneto indeed can.

**v**

Charles jumps a little when the needle breaks his skin. The serum is cold in his veins. He feels numb immediately.

“That’s good, Mr. Xavier.” A hand curls viciously on his shoulder lest he does something desperate. “You’re probably feeling a little light-headed right now. That’s just the serum shutting down your mutant genes. It works fast, and it’s painless for most.”

Emma Frost leans forward into his vision: he knows her. She smirks. “He’s going…I can no longer sense his consciousness…and he can no longer sense mine hiding in his…”

Charles imagines it’ll be like everyone’s on teleblockers, but it’s superiorly worse. He’s trapped and swirling in his own head. Even his apartment is strangely outside him now.

“Then, that’s the final recommendation of the expert for the Review Committee?”

Frost beams warmly at Charles when she mouths her next words. “I testify that Charles Xavier, known human sympathizer, is no longer a threat to law abiding mutants anywhere. I recommend he be put on watch and allowed use of his powers only after careful scrutiny and evaluation of his mental state and attitude toward the First Mutant Regime for a period not less than six months.”

“You weren’t an active agitator, Mr. Xavier. That’s the only reason the expert is being considerably lenient.”

Charles thinks he will be sick. He barely reacts when someone hands him a pen and asks him to sign some documents.

_Erik will be pleased._ He doesn’t know who Erik is but then sees the face Emma Frost is thinking at him. Charles startles visibly, his signature going off at tangents in the paper. That is all the satisfaction he deigns to give Frost. He pretends he’s shaking because of the serum coursing through his body. Yet he can’t bring himself to look her or anyone else in the eye for the rest of the Review Committee hearing.

**vi**

Erik is rapt, solemnly silent and aware. He slips his hands around Charles’s wrists, and basks in the touch. Charles has the good sense to be still. He understands, Erik thinks, how kicked-in-the-guts, how weary Erik really is. Perhaps he also understands what Erik will do if he is refused.

“Come to bed.” Erik says and every kind of desire he can think of is in his voice.

If Charles still had his powers, he might see what Erik means. Maybe he does even now as his frail body tenses, arching a little to test Erik’s grip. Power or not, Charles never stands a chance. Erik just draws him closer.

“Come to bed.” He repeats with a little more demand, more want if that were possible. Charles is stone-still, fear is a lot like paralysis after all.

“Charles…” Erik croons, there is more warning than seduction. And maybe Charles really does not know what Erik will do if he is refused.

Erik lets the metal beadings in the curtains sing to him. Without preamble they snake up Charles’s body, wrapping around his wrists where Erik held him. Erik can’t shake off how sacrificial he looks, hanging off the ground, this must be what it’s like on a cross. Surely Charles knows the game is up, and Erik has won; surely he knows writhing is just going to bring more pain. But when he doesn’t stop Erik pulls him taut, trapping Charles in a wordless, tearless scream. When Erik goes to Charles there is malice in his steps that scares Charles sober.

“Obedience” Erik takes his face roughly between his palms “goes a long way, Charles.”He presses a deep kiss to his lips, a lover’s kiss.

“Now, come to bed or I’ll have you here like this.” Erik’s hand is already on the drawstrings of his cotton pants. “Choose fast, I’m nearly out of patience.”

This is how they end up in bed, Charles, sobbing and trembling beneath Erik, but quietly also belonging to Erik and his many urges. This is all Erik remembers of his first visit to the little apartment in Westchester.

**vii**

Charles screams all the while. Obscenities, followed by pleas. Nothing will change Erik’s mind. He pushes in greedily, again and again. At one point, all of Charles’s pleading melts into a single cry, broken and painful. Erik silences him with a kiss, swallowing his voice.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop…” Charles wails when Erik moves his mouth away. “You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me…please…”

Erik whispers something warm in his ears and it sounds horribly like it’s supposed to. Nothing is supposed to hurt this way.

“Erik!” Charles urges. “Erik!” The sound of his name is a struggle, but Erik hears it for what it really is.

“I’m trying not to…you need to let me…” Erik says, slowing his body down, but never promising to end it.

Charles is ready for anything, anything that will make Erik stop.

“I’m letting you, please, I’m willing, I’m willing…” Charles screams senselessly. Anything. Erik must be smiling into his skin; Charles is weeping bitterly by the time Erik pulls out.

“It’s alright, it’s alright now…” Erik murmurs hotly. “It’ll be better next time, you’ll see.”

Charles feels like such a fool to have believed it won’t begin all over again.

**viii**

Erik is restless. Angel asks him about it and he blames the weather. He blames it on Emma Frost. He blames all the humans.

“It’s that little brunette sticking under your skin.” Frost opines, her pristine white adding to the quality of truth.

“Mind your own business…”

“I can make him like you, if that’s important to you, Erik.”

“Fuck off!“

“You are allowed to have fun, Erik.” Angel does have a way of making the innocuous perfectly suggestive.

“I assure you I am.” Erik cants. “At any rate, I’m not talking about my love life with you lot.”

“If you say so.” Emma concludes with that smile that makes it okay for Erik to hate her. Azazeal gracefully refrains from adding to any of it. And for that Erik is thankful.

**ix**

The knocking on the door is too persistent to be ignored. Charles knows it’s not Erik; he would throw the lock with a bored flash of his hand. Or Azazeal, who never bothers with doors and knocking anyway. It’s someone far too naïve. It is this knowledge that brings Charles to the door.

The young man on the other side bares his teeth in a bright smile. “This is 3 A, isn’t it? Hank McCoy…” He extends a ready hand that Charles doesn’t even pretend to be interested in. “Oh…I…I’m here with something for Magneto…” He finishes unsurely, giving the metallic suitcase at his feet a nervous jingle.

“Magneto doesn’t live here.”Charles says tersely.

“I’m sorry, this is the address he gave me…” McCoy reaches into his pockets and pulls out a dirty scrawl on a torn bit of paper. The writing on the paper says exactly that. It makes Charles want to break something.

“Are you alright? You don’t look so great…”

“What do you want?” A bitter swell of rage; Charles can’t stand it anymore.

“I’m to wait here for him. This is important.”

“Fine. Wait here for him, then.” He slams the door shut on McCoy’s shocked face, and gets into bed to fall peacefully asleep.

**x**

Erik finds Hank McCoy huddled at the door and thinks it’s bloody amusing. McCoy attempts a weak explanation. “He seemed…unhinged…”

“I don’t doubt it, my friend. It’s high time he took to some…subtlety…” Erik’s dismantles the lock, sending the door yawning open.

The lock itself glistens ominously in the air. Charles walks slowly into the living room, clearly apprehensive of Erik’s reaction.

“Evidently, you didn’t think your rudeness through.” Erik gets the lock gently floating to Charles, who looks leaden at the prospect of a fight. “Never start what you can’t end, love.”

The disfigured metal falls with a clunk to the floor. This is defeat, Erik would tell Charles if they were alone. Instead he turns to an increasingly uncomfortable Hank and asks him for the suitcase.

“Umm…yes, the suitcase…I need you to type in a password of your choice, minimum of six letters. We’ll work with that.”

The next time he looks up, Charles has disappeared into the bedroom.

**xi**

When Erik asks Charles about the police case, he knows he will be lied to.

“Everything in that file is true.”

“So you invited eight random human men over and then tried to seduce them in a pink dress?”

“Yes. It was a Vera Wang.”

“And you threatened to make them fall in love with you?”

“I am-was a telepath, after all.”

“And you never thought to erase all of this from their minds?”

“I was crazed, didn’t you read the file?”

“Were they on teleblockers?”

Charles shrugs.

“And you got that” Erik splays a strangely possessive hand on the misshapen scar on Charles’s back. “from them trying to save themselves?”

“I was lucky” Charles says tonelessly “the police came just as they overpowered me...”

Erik realizes he has been looking at the scar entirely the wrong way. It’s not a Z stretched out, it’s an M half way to completion.

“The police were all humans?” Charles nods and adds nothing further.

“So why weren’t you arrested?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Would you know where I can find your would-be victims now?”

Erik also expects the heavy silence that follows.

**xii**

Erik never sleeps in the bed; something he is sure Charles is thankful for. It does make him a little lonely in the morning on the armchair. His clothes are the same crumpled heap as he hurriedly left them the night before.

Charles is contemplating his view of the city, framed at the window against the sunlight, when Erik finds him. The toasts are burnt and the coffee looks muddy and cold.

“I see you’re into cooking…” Erik mutters dryly.

Charles quickly closes his window, whispering something inaudible in reply.

“Is there any breakfast for me?” Erik quips. “Besides burnt toast, I mean.”

“I wasn’t cooking for you.” Charles replies nonchalantly.

“And you’d think I’ve done enough to deserve breakfast.” Erik shoots Charles a hurt look. “I’d like some coffee, if you don’t mind.”

And that is said with enough power to make Charles set up a chipped coffee mug on the counter. Erik sits himself behind it, watching silently as Charles pours out his coffee.

“Thank you. I’m sure this is going to be wonderful.” Erik drawls catching Charles’s eyes as they gleam over. He takes a sip and it’s bad enough to make him gag. He laughs instead and laughs more when Charles steps back like he can’t help it.

“You’re insane…Please…just leave and don’t come back…”

“What? And miss this heavenly coffee?”

“Look, there must be others who want this…you must have others like me…”

“Yes, but hardly anyone as beguiling as you. You don’t need to be jealous.” Erik lets his voice sink dangerously; he thinks it’s warning enough.

“Jealous? I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone-“ Charles sounds prepared to brave whatever is coming his way.

“Exactly what wouldn’t you wish upon your worst enemies? Being desired by me?” Some of his good humor has been irredeemably lost and there is a voice in his head that tells him to leave the apartment before he does Charles any lasting harm.

“Being raped-” Charles glowers at him, with what is probably the last bit of courage he can muster.

Erik is so fast getting around to Charles, flicking the furniture away with his powers. He traps Charles between the kitchen counter and himself.

“Look at you…so brave by daylight.” Charles cringes away but Erik is so close that it doesn’t make a difference. “Except you’re not really, are you? I mean, where were you when your mutant brothers and sisters were being massacred? You were hiding away in here, trying to fit in with the humans. Maybe even helping them…and make no mistake, I will find out if you did…”

Erik decides he likes the flurried pitch of Charles’s breath, the shocking warmth of it.

“And don’t pretend you didn’t have another choice. You could’ve gone to the camps with your friends. Instead you traded yourself in for your one bedroom apartment and your fucking coffee.”

Charles pushes at him, catching him clumsy and unaware. Erik grabs at his t-shirt, snapping him back.

“Get off me, get off…” Charles screams and thrashes wildly. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re really not in a position to demand anything.” Erik calmly holds Charles down through the worst of it.

Till Charles slumps back against the counter, weeping for all he’s worth. Erik always knows when it’s the right time.He leans in, talking into Charles’s ear: “I’ll see you tonight and I’ll probably want something other than burnt toast.”

**xiii**

Erik finds a pink dress folded out immaculately, in the spare wardrobe; it’s ripped apart in the back, and decorated with streaks of blood, cash stuffed into one of its ironed pockets.

He thinks he will never forget the lily-lemon scent of the cloth, from the same room freshener as Charles uses. Erik says nothing.

**xiv**

Charles longs for anywhere that is not his house or the bed he shares with Erik. In the mornings, there are the pains, the aches and burns he’s getting used to, and the fear and shame, he hopes he will never get accustomed to. The nights belong to Erik.

Charles drops on to the floor by the bed and sleeps through his days; little by little, he plans not to wake at all.


	2. The Little Things

**i**

Charles is aware first of an eerie light that floods the bedroom, faintly familiar even in his sleep. He sits up on the floor, now gone cold around him.Sadness drops on him; it’s all he can do to not make a sound. He pads softly to the door and peeks out at the living room.

Erik is on the kitchen counter, his new favorite haunt. There’s a half empty bottle of wine, turning new colors as he flicks past channels. He pauses briefly to watch a man tumble down the stairs, and laughs heartily.

The hatred that spreads through Charles knows no bounds. How dare Erik stake claim to all that laughter, all that peace of mind and calm, and leave so little behind for Charles. Erik must be drunk; it would be easy to get something sharp, to cut, and tear into Erik. Metal would not work, but the broken pane in the bathroom window, now there’s possibility there. All the air in the world doesn’t seem enough for Charles. The thought sickens him till he feels weak in the knees.

Ultimately, it is a single gasp of desperation that draws Erik’s attention to him. And like that, every single emotion is replaced by fear. Even the TV drops down to a whisper, muted as though by its own accord, though possibly it’s Erik.

“I had no idea you liked the floor so much.” Erik sounds unruffled by the wine. “Or were you just too tired after last night and everything?”

Charles twinges at the insinuation but makes no reply. Maybe Erik will let him be if he pretends not to exist.

“I’m not the kind of problem that goes away if you ignore me.” Erik smirks, Charles has to fight his body, every last bit of him wants to run into the bedroom and hide. That would just leave him with Erik and a warm bed, in the end. Erik eases himself off the counter, hovering and wanting to get to Charles.

“I’m not ignoring you.” Charles mumbles with a faux confidence that breaks Erik’s stride for a moment. Maybe he’s won this time, but no, Erik likes to defy his hopes; he is casually drawing closer again.

“I’m hoping you won’t…” Erik breathes. Charles, screaming to himself in his head, stays stone-still, neither looking Erik in the eye nor really facing up to him. He holds down a flinch when Erik clips two fingers onto the neck of his tee.

“You need to change out of this, it’s been three days proper. You’re beginning to smell like me.”

Charles snags to the thought it’s been three days. Three days, since Erik turned his life inside-out and upside down, acting all the while, as though he, Charles, deserves it.

Erik pulls lightly at the tee. The thought of baring his body to Erik sears him. He tries to pry himself away.

“I can do that fine by myself.”

“I’m not asking! You’re smart, you know the difference.” That does away with any illusion Charles has of choice. There is only Erik’s design.

Charles closes his eyes much to Erik’s mirth. He shivers slightly in the chill that hits him the moment he is shirtless.

Worse, Erik’s hands on his shoulders are stunningly heavy, even as he traces the lines of Charles’s jaw with his fingers.

“You are beautiful.”Charles’s eyes fly open in shock. Maybe he’s right about Erik being drunk. “Why should you be so difficult?” Erik peers down earnestly at Charles as though there’s a sane answer to be had.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Charles pushes urgently at Erik, earning a short breadth of space for himself. “Erik, you have to let me go. I don’t want this.”

“Are you mad about your powers?” Erik asks, apropos of nothing.

“I-what?” Charles snaps. For the life of him, he can’t gauge Erik. “Yes, I’m angry about my telepathy.”

Erik lets his finger graze a bruise on Charles’s collarbone. It stings briefly before going numb. “You weren’t exactly using it for the benefit of mutant kind.”

Charles makes a small, hurt noise. “I wasn’t killing anyone with it, you mean.”

“You were hoarding it away. That’s a crime in my book.”

“One I can live with.” Charles hisses.

“By that logic, Charles...” Erik is bold again, clamping down on Charles’s hips with authority. “This is something I can live with.”It’s so terrible to be trapped when he thought Erik was seeing some light.

“You can have anyone.” There’s that desperation, he grabs at Erik till his arm is twisted at an angle weird enough to hurt. “You can’t have me, not me, not me.”

“I already have you, silly.” The joviality in Erik’s voice scares Charles more. This must be what it means to be on the losing side of a war; discounted with cheer.

Charles knows there’ll be rug burns in the morning when Erik is done sliding him over to the couch. “Erik, listen to me, please.” Charles goes hoarse from trying not to shout. “You said it yourself. You’ve already fucked me. I’m old news.” Erik stops, Charles putting up a bigger fight than he imagined. “You’ve had your fun. Please, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I’m done, Erik. Please.”

“You’re done when I say you’re done.” Erik lifts him off the floor easily enough. “Actually I think I’m done listening to you.”

Being thrown onto the couch knocks the wind out of Charles. “Stay still or I swear to god, Charles…”

“Erik, listen to me.” Charles begins to pick himself up; Erik’s backhand catches him flush on the jaw.

“I said stay still.” Charles recognizes now that an even tone in Erik does not mean he is calm. It only means he is in control. “I want you. You will come to me like a good little boy and do what you’re told. Or you won’t and I will make you. Either way, Charles, in the end, you will obey me.”

Erik takes both of Charles’s hands in his without much resilience. “Charles, tell me what you want and I’ll do it that way. But this ends here. I’m tired of fighting in our bed.”

“It’s not your fucking bed.” Charles sobs out, knowing somehow that he’s made his choice clear to Erik. And it’s the wrong one judging by the darkness that flits through on Erik’s face.

“Don’t push me, Charles.” He manages tersely between his teeth on edge.

Charles is heaving back his breath, his mind tipping back and forth between flight and confrontation. Breaking Erik’s gaze would mean accepting either one of those paths. Right now, neither will save him; so he holds steady, letting Erik come to his own conclusions.

“You will head on to the bath, get clean and dressed in twenty minutes. You take a second longer and I will do it for you. And then, we’re going to continue this conversation. I’m not through with you, not by a long shot. Understood?” The warning is intensified by Erik’s ever tightening hold.

Charles glances miserably, blinking back new tears.

“Go.” Erik stands back.

Charles can’t get away fast enough, almost tripping over the carpet running to the bathroom. He closes the door and sinks to his haunches, where he can’t feel Erik’s eyes on him.

**ii**

Erik thinks he has Charles exactly where he wants him; tame, and silent, unreasonably becoming in bed. He thinks he ought to be congratulated for reining himself in like he did. Conquering Charles Xavier is proving to be a more riling affair than conquering the rest of the world. At any rate, it can’t be too much to ask, he did win a war for mutant liberation.

None of this does anything for his high temper. Charles curls in against the wall, refusing to take the hand held out at him. Anyone else and he’d have skinned them alive, but this is Charles fucking Xavier being petulant. Erik can deal with this.

“Charles, I’m trying. I really am. I need you to meet me halfway.”

“Does it matter?” Charles has a way of making uncertain clarity. “You’re going to do what you want with me. If I don’t let you, you’ll hurt me and go on your merry way…”

“I’m glad you’ve come to an understanding.” Erik moves closer, he can smell spring flower shampoo on Charles, see the stray drop of water running down his hair.

“There is no goddamn understanding.” Charles’s voice has an edge to it that Erik hasn’t heard before. “This is you taking me against my wishes.”

“Don’t be that way, Charles.” Erik’s hands find Charles’s ankle, squeezing till he notices.

“You’re right, this is not how I should be.” Erik first senses the coiling of Charles’s muscles under his fingers but it is too late, Charles pounces with infinite ability.

The sting of the sharpened glass under his jaw jolts Erik to his senses. He stills down.

“Are you happy?” Charles mutters, pressing down on Erik’s right arm with a knee. “You backed me into this corner. You turned me into this.”

Erik swallows, Charles with his hair askew and eyes, an angry blue. Does Charles think he’s a warrior? “Is this where I cower and hide?” Erik mocks. “Either follow up on your threat or get off me.”

Every metal in the room curdles in a single buzz. Any of those could hurt Charles, Erik tells himself.

Charles presses the shard closer to his carotid, maybe there’s blood. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Erik watches the confused wandering of Charles’s eyes; the door, the windows, the floor, everywhere Erik, too, follows with his eyes. “I was wrong about you. You are fearless.”

“I swear Erik, you…you…” Erik’s free arm winds around Charles’s wrist, carefully redirecting the sharpness of the shard. “You know what it’s like to kill? To tear a man apart by the limbs?”

Charles’s face crumbles, his hand shaking in Erik’s; “Why don’t I find out, Erik!”

Charles tips the glass and making it glow in the dim light. There is fire and anger there.

Erik’s touch traveling to Charles’s neck, turning into a painful noose, it happens so fast. Charles chokes, clawing at Erik, face, hair and all. The shard of glass slips, harmlessly scratching Erik’s skin, and landing without a noise on the carpet. He can’t remember feeling this dire but in battle, right before a kill.Charles, himself, makes an animal noise when he realizes his weapon is gone. Erik slams him back into the headboard.

It is slow to take, the desire to own Charles, but now that it does, Erik feels nothing else till he ends up kissing Charles, pulling at his lips and drawing him into a deeper lock. Charles with a great burst of energy, shoves back, and lashes out with his fist. It’s timid, and awkward, but it gets Erik flat. Charles pants viciously. The silence is deafening; Erik has to remind himself that it is peacetime.

**iii**

Fuck Erik Lehnsherr. Charles pulls unwisely at his tied hands. The headboard creaks indulgingly but will not yield.

“Untie me.” He spits out.

Erik spares him an unpitying glance, grumbling what must be more orders into the phone. “Emma, I want to meet them. Yes, as fast as you can, I’ll be home.”

The word is meant to indoctrinate him, to let Charles know that Erik does not plan on going away one fine morning. Screw Erik and his subtle power plays, his grand designs and all that jazz. Charles does not intend to play along: “This is not your home, you bastard.”

Erik snaps his phone shut and faces a seething Charles: “I know this is a stupid question, but are you done with your tantrum?”

A tantrum, is that what Erik thinks this is? Charles can feel the roar of blood in his head. At the end of the day, he’d do well not to expect anything but callousness. “You took my power, raped me and this is a tantrum?”

“So…no.” Erik looms, ever magnificent, getting on his knees between Charles’s legs. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

The way he says it, makes Charles think it is a great concession. “You must be ashamed of such weakness.” Charles scoffs.

He is at a point where nothing gets past him. Every word, every look strikes at him afresh. They have to for anything to make sense.

“My weakness is not putting you in your place.” A wayward glint of Erik’s eyes has Charles worrying all over again. Hitting Erik just led to a new spiral downwards, one that did not end well for Charles. It seems nothing will. “Though, I must say, Charles, you’re quite in your element when you’re being fucked. Just happy to beg, weren’t you?”

Charles swallows tightly, his throat is raspy, a good reminder that he spent most of the past few hours screaming for Erik to stop.

“I don’t think you appreciate what you have here. You should be in a labor camp with the rest of your rebel buddies but here you are snug in your bed.”

“Send me to the camps. It can’t be all that different from this torture.”

“You have no idea what torture is.” Erik yanks wildly at Charles’s hair. “This?” Erik pinches the telephone cable that made for such efficient bondage at short notice; Charles whimpers as the soreness climbs. “I should snap your wrist in two and then pull your nails out...”

“I’m not scared of you.” Charles shrieks.

Erik’s face breaks into a wry smile. “Such a pretty liar. I know you tremble at the thought of me.”

Evidently, this is enough to turn Erik on; Charles brings his knees into the cramped space between them, ready to get Erik in the ribs should the occasion call for it. Erik kisses him gently on the calf, laughing when Charles’s eyes narrow unpleasantly.

“But, behave and I will be good to you. Show me you can obey and I’ll let you out of the apartment for an hour. Consider it a small start…”

Charles seizes. Being let out seems such a luxury but also, unnecessarily kind on Erik’s part. He feels a tug on his wrists and they’re free. Erik must think he has Charles’s attention sufficiently.

“There…I can be nice to you…” Erik comforts, tenderly examining the purple bruises. “That’ll only hurt for a while.”

Charles pulls his hands away, hugging himself. “Think about it. And in the meantime, if you do want to use the loo, let me know. Also, don’t be surprised if you can’t lift anything sharp and metallic, I’ve magnetized them down.” Erik’s runs a single finger down Charles’s chest, stopping in the middle to ponder. “It won’t do to take risks with you.”

Charles knows it’s redundant to sound jubilant now, so late into his pseudo-surrender. But it must be noted that Erik takes effort on behalf of him; never let it be that he was easy to tame: “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

There, that sets Erik’s jaw, not very discernible but ever-present should Charles’s responses be unacceptable.

“Hurt me, love?” Erik takes his turn to soak in triumph, no doubt buoyed by Charles’s face turning miserable without his acquiescence. “If you had the guts to finish what you set out to do, I’d be lying in a pool of my own blood.” Erik takes the moment to sneak in a chaste kiss. “No, no…this is more for you than me. Wouldn’t want you doing anything stupid to yourself.”

Charles understands the real implications. He’s tipped his hand, shown Erik how desperate he can get and how soon. Now, Erik like the aggressive strategist he is, has outmaneuvered him. To collect his mind back together is too much, so he settles for being stoic; Erik must see that as acceptance.

“Emma will be here soon. She’s bringing in two mutants we rescued from Trask. I’m sure you’d like the opportunity to see what your lovely human beings have been doing to us.”

“Not every human is like Trask.” Charles, for some reason, thinks Erik already knows this and doesn’t care.

Erik pulls Charles, small and compelled, into his lap, kissing the M scar reverently. Charles tilts forward but lets himself be held, mostly because he’s wrung out and needs the kindness right now. “You refuse to learn.”

Erik could mean so many things, not just his views about humans, Charles decides. “Remember what I said…” How could he forget? “Get dressed, now.”

Charles’s clothes are picked out and laid neatly on the bed; simple linen shirt, one of his favorites and comfortable slacks, so nothing exciting.

Charles is allowed on the bed easy, a final nuzzle to his nape tells him Erik is satisfied. And Charles has to remind himself that this doesn’t mean a thing.

**iv**

Erik likes Charles, especially when he’s amenable to little things. Like, letting O. Munroe, as her tattoo proclaims, flitter around his precious apartment touching and examining curios, books, coffee mugs and anything else that happens to catch her fancy.

This is important when J. Grey has refused to step into the room, crawling ably into the space under the stairs where neither Erik nor Emma can reach. She covers her ears, and buries her face in the nook; it takes inhuman restrain on Erik’s part not to drag her out by the metal buttons on her clothes.

Once or twice, O. Munroe peeps out the door. “It’s alright sweetie, we’re getting her.” Erik says as he blocks her view. The last thing he wants is another baby tantrum. God knows he’s had his share of them in his face. “Charles! Take her inside please.”

Emma perks her ear up at Charles’s dusky whispering, looking over her shoulder to see O. Munroe wrap her arms around his waist. “She’s taken to him.” Emma’s lips twitch icily. “He’s quite the charmer, eh?”

Erik can hear sweet nothings, words of coddled assurance wafted to O. Munroe. “Why’s she so well adjusted?” Erik eyes O. Munroe’s body of burns and bruises, the patterns repeated worse on J. Grey.

“I don’t think she is…it’s unnatural for children who’s gone through what she has, to be so at ease with strangers…something’s…if only I could read them.”

"Why do you suppose you can’t?” Erik tries not to sound too much like he’s enjoying her failure. Emma doesn’t need to be in his head to see the obvious, as she lets him know with a scowl of disdain.

Erik settles cross-legged on the floor, watching J. Grey as innocuously as possible.

“It’s certainly not any kind of teleblocker that we know of, we had them tested. It could be their powers. I mean, who knows what they can do…” Emma’s face does not show any inclination towards tension as she reaches her hands out once in a while, for J. Grey to be indifferent to.

“…Like my hair and snow and ice cream, that’s why it’s my favorite color…do you have ice cream?” O. Munroe’s stray syllables find their way to Erik and Emma from the apartment. Charles will be kindling a caring smile at her, Erik knows.

“No, but we can get some in the morning, I’m sure E. Lehnsherr won’t mind…” There is a suggestion of stress in Charles’s voice when he says this. And Erik smiles despite his best intentions not to, with Emma around.

“What’s wrong, C. Xavier?” O. Munroe’s tone turns into one of great alarm.

Emma does not need telling, she’s probably already in his head. “Fuck, Erik!” She nearly jumps out of her skin. “Someone just pushed me out of his mind. I saw a flash of…oh, you are a kinky bas-“

“What do you mean, pushed you out? Charles?” Erik is already on his feet.

Charles is crying weakly, on his knees. O. Munroe is patting him softly on the back.

“It’s, it’s…oh…” Charles doubles over, clutching his head.

“Emma, do something.” Erik knows better than to sound so panicked. He’ll be paying for this later, he’s always paying for something or the other with Emma.

“Charles?” Erik props him against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” O. Munroe’s voice is now shrill.

“Just stand back, okay sweetheart?” Emma guides O. Munroe away.

“I don’t want to remember…stop…” Charles mutters and Erik can see his eyes go wide, blue ringed frighteningly with silver.

“Emma…dammit…” Erik’s seen this before, Emma bringing the powerful to their knees like this.

An uncomfortable clamminess sets off in Charles’s skin. Erik rubs circles on his chest, trying to keep him calm.

“Jean, it’s Jean…” Charles mumbles through chattering teeth. “It’s h-her…” He points in the general direction of the door.

“It’s the girl, Emma. J. Grey!” Erik shouts, tangling his limbs with Charles’s to hold him better. Emma rushes out but is trumped by O. Munroe, who wails for Jean to stop: “Jeanie…Jeanie…stop…” and then pushes in beside her, so that they’re both out of Emma’s reach.

Emma cants urgently, her exasperation showing through: “You’re hurting him, you’re hurting Charles. You’ve got to stop.”

“Jeanie…stop…” O. Munroe throws herself around J. Grey and something gives. Erik can sense Charles’s body loosening down, and the first unfurling of a real breath under his fingers.

“Charles?” Erik pushes the hair off his forehead. Charles gazes back up at him, just gulping down air freely. Trails of tears mark his face, sparkling oddly. He charily sits up and then, immediately puts distance between their bodies.

“I…I need to see her..she’s really scared…”

“I don’t want you near her. She almost killed you.” Erik grabs a fistful of Charles’s shirt. He doesn’t think much of having clothes on Charles’s back.

“No, she reached out to me because there’s no other mind she can read. You’re all on teleblockers.”

“It’s not safe…”

“No, it isn’t. But she might go after the next mind she sees and they might not be so lucky.” Charles pouts, he actually pouts, standing determinedly up.

Erik takes a deep breath, somewhere behind the door, Emma coughs. Charles is at the door, by then.

“Fine, but Emma will be in there with you.” Erik calls, damn it if he isn’t dictating this woeful shenanigan.

“Yeah, because I’m expendable.” Emma furrows her face, an indication that she is both displeased with Erik’s decision and also that she is in Charles’s head. “Now, we have two frightened kids instead of one.” Her body transforms into diamond form, her war costume.

Erik can see Charles stoop at the crawlspace. “Jean? Hel-ooh…” He stumbles as though something were thrown at him.

Emma sticks her hand out, balancing him: “Careful, she’s not in control of her power. She’s just striking out to protect herself.”

“Ororo…darling…you want to tell Jean it’s okay to come out?” Charles whispers, so expressly affectionate, almost gets Erik’s mouth watering.

“If this is what floats your boat, Erik, you’re too far gone domestic than I ever thought.” Emma states dryly aside, putting up a hand to stop Erik’s rebuttal.

“How the fu-“ Erik can’t imagine what gave him away. It’s not as though Emma can see in his head with all those teleblockers, or can she?

“I’m concentrating.” Emma turns jauntily away.

“Yeah, on my freaking business.” Erik snorts.

“Ororo?” Charles calls softly.

Ororo’s white head bobs out; there is rampant fear in her eyes: “Are you mad at us?”

“No…I’d never be mad at you or Jean…” Charles’s voice cracks unnervingly. “None of us would…” He stages a wonky nod at Emma and then, a strong one at Erik. “I promise…”

“J. Grey says she’s scared of him.” Erik has to bite down his disappointment at Ororo’s finger thrust in his direction. “She won’t tell me why.”

“Jean? Oww…” Charles hisses in pain as Jean sends something at him. Emma grunts, probably parrying some of Jean’s power from getting to Charles. But they’re not too busy to shoo away Erik’s light footed move towards Charles. Can anyone blame him for feeling deserted right now?

“I can see that…he…he is a scary man…” Charles admits. “b-but…I promise…” Charles’s eyes dim with fresh tears and it seems like he won’t get through this conversation. “Yes, I know you can’t see inside his head, love.”

“She doesn’t trust me because she can’t read me?” Erik turns to Emma, whose impatient foot taps are starting to get on his nerve.

“No, she doesn’t trust you because she’s seeing you through dear old C. Xavier’s thoughts.”

Erik staggers with the weight of that. What has Charles made him out to be?

He sees Charles wince as J. Grey keens her disbelief. Some part of him flails.

Emma takes over; the woman’s presence of mind is commendable: “Happily, this is easy to correct. Charles, follow my instructions if you want to get out of there in one piece.”

She focuses on Charles, and a second later, he turns sharply to glare at her: “No! If you think I’ll willingly-“

“Either that or I pull out. Have fun dealing with Carrie on your own.” Emma’s offer is final.

Charles looks endlessly tormented. He opens his mouth to reason this out, to have a say in this. But Emma’s diamond body must be omen enough that all equality eludes this interaction.

“Charles, do as she says…” Erik is the final verdict. Charles’s eyes are designed to assign blame to him, it would seem. “If we can’t get them to come out, we’ll have to go in and force them out. That’s not going to turn out well for anybody.”

Charles shakes his head at Erik, frantically, very differently than when they’re in bed; this is more pleading than desperate: “You don’t know what she’s asking me to do! I won’t…not this, I won’t…”

“Fine, I’m out of here.” Emma says, returning halfway to her real body when Charles calls frantically: “No, wait, okay, okay…”

Charles takes a deep breath. “Jean, listen to me please…” Erik can see the little girl lean forward ever so slightly, still almost entirely hidden behind an enterprising Ororo, though. “E. Lehnsherr won’t h-hurt you…he…”

Again the pause, Charles seems to be searching for words. Emma curses under her breath, relaying her exasperation. “He won’t do t-to you what he does to me…” Erik can feel the pit of his stomach fall.

“It’s just the truth.” Emma shrugs. Erik does not catch her eyes. Maybe it is the truth.

“I…deserve what he d-does to m-me…I helped people like the people who did those awful things to you…so I deserve this…” Charles comes out stronger with each word. “He’ll love you and take care of you. Because you’ve been brave and you’re so special, he’ll fight for you…”

Emma makes a delighted squeal: “Such high opinions of you, Erik. I didn’t give him those thoughts.”

“Jean, Ororo…please, please let h-him help you…come on out…” Charles beseeching, with his blue eyes and quivering red lips, a vision, Erik thinks. Erik sees that Jean, red-haired and green eyed, is enthralled by Charles when she comes out. Well, that makes two of them. She touches Charles on his face, dabbing at the dampness there. Ororo thuds into them soon, drawing all three into a close hug.

Only a disgruntled Emma Frost swears it’s bloody adorable. Erik forgets what to think.

**v**

It’s a quarter past three in the morning, by the time Charles can get Jean and Ororo into their makeshift bed; the couch pulled out and reset by Erik.

Emma disappears in a flash of sulfuric fumes, Azazeal does not have all that time to spare.

Charles returns to the bedroom he shares with Erik and finds wine on the bedside table, and Erik, himself, comfortably shirtless. Nothing will shake the feeling that something important has been lost.

“You were good out there…” Erik slips behind Charles, one arm coming up to bind him across the chest, and the other hand playing with Charles’s fly. Charles wriggles his discomfiture. Not that it seems to matter to Erik. “I know that was hard for you, Charles.”

Charles’s breathing hitches: “That didn’t stop you or Frost.”

“It’s just the truth.” Erik tenses behind him; he flips Charles around deftly.

“Looking me in the eye will not make it the truth, Erik.” Maybe if he could bring himself to level with Erik’s gaze, this would be poignant. But Charles is actually staring at Erik’s jaw, clenched elegantly as he contemplates.

“I mean it. You did great with Jean and Ororo.” Charles wonders what it is about Erik that makes him so insurmountable. “I made a promise to you, if you remember, and I intend to keep it. Tomorrow, you can go out for an hour. Wherever you want to go.”

Charles never thought he’d ever be this dangerously close to killing someone with his bare hands.

“How ever will I repay you, E. Lehnsherr?” Erik’s smiles are always brittle, cracking at the first sign of resistance. This one is no different.

“Careful Charles, I might think you’re not being particularly grateful.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want that, would I?” Charles keeps his voice drained of anything resembling warmth.

“No, you certainly wouldn’t. Because then, Charles, I might feel the need for you to show me just how grateful you can be.”

Charles can feel Erik’s hand tucking suggestively into his waistband. There is no point in time, Charles thinks, when this threat will fail to elicit the highest order of terror in him. “Cat got your tongue?”

Charles scrambles thoughts in his head; but Erik brushes a hand on his cheek and steps aside. “Next time, try a simple ‘Thank you’” and heads languidly down to the bath.

Charles knows he’s shaking too much. He wants to cry in a quiet corner, but will not afford Erik the immense pleasure.

**vi**

Erik leaves in the morning, humming to himself all the way.

**vii**

Azazeal makes quite an appearance and an equally spectacular disappearance; when the smoke settles, three cartons of vanilla ice-cream sit on the kitchen counter. A sweaty Hank McCoy seems to have been dumped on the floor behind the counter.

Ororo squeals at Hank, grabbing Charles’s hands; Jean only stares at him warily.

“Hello, I don’t know if you remember me…I’m H-Hank McCoy…” McCoy flushes, his smile tapering.

"I remember you.” Charles says drearily. It wasn’t that long ago and it certainly wasn’t uneventful.

“Oh, well…ummm…there’s ice-cream…” McCoy balks as Charles crosses his arms and fixes him with a steady look. “And, and…Magneto wants me to…I’m a doctor, so he wants me to take a look at the kids.” He ends up glancing at Charles as though for permission.

Charles sighs, picking up flits of panic that are not his own. The worried look on Ororo’s face means she must be picking them off Jean as well. He takes her hand in his, squeezing lightly: “Ororo, it’s alright…I’m here…Jean?”

“I’m really not here to hurt you, Jean…” Hank says in all earnestness, moving slowly towards a shivering Jean.

“I’m not sure that’s a good id-“Charles puts his hand up and before he can touch McCoy, a wild ball of snow hits him square on the jaw. Followed by another and then another one.

“What the…Ororo?” Whiteness fills her eyes, she must not be able to hear him. “Are you doing that?”

“It’s her power!” shouts a disproportionately happy McCoy.

Jean scampers to Charles, tucking herself behind his legs. And Ororo loosens a volley of white hail and sleet that buries McCoy.

**viii**

Erik squirms for once; Trask’s labs and its blood coated metal make him uneasy. Every bit of rust-colored stain is mutant blood. It makes him angry that Charles could ever not fight and then, have the balls to think of Erik as the monster when-

“Erik, I can tell you're thinking about him…” Emma’s voice scrapes across the room. He snaps to, mercifully it’s just the two of them and an expanse of cold, creaking steel beams. This is his element.

“No, not just him…but what he stands for. How could so many of us, so many mutants turn away from the suffering of their brothers and sisters?”

Emma blinks in her insect way: “I tamped his brain down, you know. Jean can only feel his general emotions, now. Not memories and thoughts.”

“Is that a trick answer?” Erik rolls his eyes. “Some code you forgot to mention?”

“That, Erik, was the answer to the question you were never going to ask.”

Erik wants to yank out every inch of metal within his reach.

**ix**

Charles feels stupid in the middle of it all; Erik’s half-frown as he steps unaware into the melted snow, and Ororo, convinced beyond reassurance that she will be punished, sobbing softly at his side, and McCoy, well, being just McCoy, trying to mop up the water. Only Jean gives him a semblance of sanity, forming small smiles when he catches her eye.

“What happened here?” Erik turns without ado to Charles. Precisely as though he, Charles, had been waiting with bated breath to tell Erik all about his day.

“Ask your doctor.” Charles throws back and waits. Erik’s open glare doesn’t shake him, or rather is lost in the fact that he is at the moment not alone with Erik.

McCoy drops his mop, puts his hand up in reconciliation: “I know you told me to be careful! I swear…”

“What. Happened. In. Here. Charles?” Charles realizes that Erik never did look away, never tuned that blazing gaze on McCoy. He shifts slightly and returns an equally scathing glance back at Erik: “He scared Jean and…”

"I told you to be careful!” Erik’s pitch rises in exasperation. Charles could swear he felt the metal frame of his armchair quiver. That must mean that Erik is in an exceptionally bad mood.

“I was! You didn’t tell me to be careful of her…” McCoy explains with a hand sweeping out at Ororo, who trembles and picks up a louder wail. McCoy’s horrified squeak tells Charles that he did not mean for it to come out so harsh. “Not, not that it was bad sweetheart…I don’t mean to, don’t cry…”

“Ororo did this?” Erik asks stupidly, as though he had somehow foolishly forgotten that Ororo did indeed have powers. “That’s…Is she hurt?”

“She thinks you’re going to be mad about this.” Charles clarifies, putting his hand gently around Ororo. “I told her no one will hurt her, mad or not. But…”

Erik walks on tip-toes to the armchair, Charles wonders if he should somehow have gotten far away. But he no longer has the choice when Erik goes down on his knees before him and Ororo.

“Darling…look at me…” Ororo sniffles and buries her face in Charles’s side. Erik’s voice so honeyed, such a rare thing, Charles realizes. “I’m not mad. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Charles can see Ororo seek his eyes out, needing guarantee: “He won’t hurt you…”

There is absolutely no necessity for him to take Erik’s sudden flick of a look and he doesn’t.

Ororo turns to Erik hesitantly, but only just. “I was scared, I thought he was going to hurt Jean…” Her voice tapers to, and stops. Charles tightens his arm around her.

“You did right.” Erik declares. It’s Charles’s turn to run a surprised look and Erik is there to meet it. Even Ororo wrenches her face away to stare at Erik. Somewhere behind Erik, Hank McCoy is aptly indignant.

“That’s what your powers are for…you will protect Jean from everything and everyone. O. Munroe, I’d say you’re a warrior. “

An absolute chill settles on Charles. Erik must have noticed because his hand is nestling confidently on Charles’s thigh, seemingly to balance himself but more, more than anything, to touch Charles. Ororo slips closer to Erik; Charles can’t help his arm tensing to hold her back.

“We will protect each other no matter what the cost.” Ororo’s crying has stifled down to mere huffs of breath.

Only McCoy’s hulking awkwardness makes itself felt: “But I was hardly trying to hurt her, you know…”

“I take it you didn’t get a chance to look at the kids?” Again, addressed to McCoy but eyes to Charles, he almost starts to answer. “Umm, no…” McCoy admits flatly, an apologetic grimace already spreading on his face. “It’s not for lack of trying though.” He adds when Erik finally does him the grace of looking in his direction.

“I suppose it can wait till the morning, now. Still, that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself useful. Charles and I need to have a chat…” Erik’s attention returning to Charles dutifully, and somehow, Ororo’s comfortable weight is the only thing that stops him from bolting. “You can babysit. Try not to bring down a typhoon this time.”

Jean cranes her neck, suddenly popping into Charles’s vision. Concern leaks into his mind, along with images of his own face drained of color. “I’m alright, Jean…” Charles says. No, he’s not, he can feel the cloistered thudding in his chest, whatever Erik wants him alone for can’t be good or easy.

“Of course you’re alright, it’s not like I have a knife to your throat.” Erik pivots, his disgruntled baring of teeth transforming into a sloppy smile when he faces Jean. “We’re just going to talk about some stuff. I promise he’ll be fine, okay?” Jean nods half-heartedly, and Ororo loosens her death hold in anticipation of Charles’s departure.

Erik crooks his fingers, stepping away into the kitchen, for Charles to follow. McCoy tries his best to look away but doesn’t quite manage it; Charles can do without his petty sympathy. Once in the kitchen, Erik hides everything from his line of sight. He stands across the doorway, gazing calmly at Charles.

“Have you decided?” Erik’s question is immediate.

“Decided what?” Charles asks, remembering even as the words escape his mouth, what short choice had been offered to him.

“If it means so little to you, Charles, I’ll forget it too…” Erik knows how to play this game, after all, he’s the one who makes the rules.

“Wait, it’s not-“ No, Charles wants this.

“I know it’s not. Have you decided?” Charles senses the triumph in Erik’s voice.

“I think I want to go for a walk. I just need to be out of here for a bit…” The deepest parts of his will revolt, is he really begging Erik to be kindly let out for a walk?

“An hour.” Erik reminds him. “Do you mean to walk for the entire time?”

“I…I suppose…” Charles shrugs. The thought that he is walking away from Erik, if only for an hour, cheers him up immensely. “Just around the neighborhood…” Maybe a good look around to see if there is anyone who will help him.

“If that’s what you want…” Erik nods his approval. Charles imagined this would require intense wrangling on his part, he’s partly relieved and partly shocked that Erik would agree so easily. He almost misses the rest of Erik’s sentence, “…that’s what we will do.”

And there goes the bubble.

“We?” Charles straightens unhappily, hoping that the pronoun was purely rhetorical on Erik’s part.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you out alone, did you?” Erik manages to make it sound naïve, perfectly, adorably naïve. “In the end, I have no doubt, we’ll come to that. I’ll be able to trust you. But right now, you’re not all there, Charles.”

Charles does not answer; in the end, it seems, Erik will claim his hour and his lifetime.


	3. Surfacing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Folks, I'll be traveling and whatnot this Christmas. So this is my last update for the month. Happy Holidays.

**i**

The walk is a silent affair with Charles serenaded by bullet holes and tell-tale splatters of blood on his favorite walls, FMR posters taking over the rest of the seen world. Really, the strange new bodily pains making his walk uncomfortable are indication enough that this is a bad idea anyway. Not that he will let Erik know as he bounds along, unerringly vigilant, merging his shadow with Charles’s under the neon streetlights.

Most of the neighborhood is empty except for the patrolmen who routinely recognize Erik and are star-struck. They reserve a look of severe skepticism for Charles until Erik waves them away with authority. Perhaps this is as educational as the TV coverage and the newspapers he’s missed out on.

It’s not long before they get to the park, and there isn’t a single familiar face for Charles to spot. There are only strange mutants, either angry in the colors of the regime or freshly euphoric from the freedom. Not one of them fails to register Erik’s presence, never mind his grey trench coat and sneakers.

“Magneto, Magneto…if you hadn’t called for us to fight…”

“Will we have jobs? We need jobs!”

“I named my baby Magnus for you…”

Erik smiles regally: “You’ve been far too kind, sister.”

Now only if Erik could kindly stop pushing Charles behind his sturdy frame.

“Magneto, what about Mystique? I hear she’s regrouping outside New York.”

“She’s dead!” Erik counters with conviction, fastening his hold on Charles.

A cold, wet kiss is being pressed to his other hand, someone has mistaken it for Erik’s. The jostling grows worse on every side. Questions are thrown in; to Erik’s credit, he is entirely calm.

“What about the human sympathizers? They’re being publicly flogged in Saudi Arabia. What’re we doing?” A thin voice cuts across the babble.

Charles freezes just as quickly as Erik. Just at the opening of the circle, he can see eyes narrow.

“Brother, you already know they’ve been stripped of their powers. The ones we do know are dangerous are in the camps or under house arrest. The others…well…” Erik nods.

“At least, the humans were fighting for their own side!” A young boy suddenly pipes up. “Sympathizers are traitors to their own kind, Magneto.”

Charles, looking over Erik, sees a ring of fire in the boy’s eyes up. He does not notice the hand sneaking up on him in camaraderie, settling around his shoulder. Charles jumps and Erik hisses: “For heaven’s sake, be still, Charles.”

“Who’s he?” Someone whispers near his ear. “Magneto’s holding his hand.”

Urgent murmurs all around him, and someone’s hot breath touches him as they try to get a look at him.

“Erik…” Charles keens under his breath, hating the helplessness that storms him.

Erik laughs: “Easy, Charles…Brother, my friend is not good with crowds.” There, Erik extricating Charles diplomatically from the friendly hand. Someone guffaws. More eyes measuring Charles up now.

“We should be stringing them up by their skin.” The boy says, peeved that he has lost Erik’s attention. Charles hates how his eyes wander over Charles and away. “Magneto, they have it coming.”

“What’s your name?” Magneto asks, genuinely piqued.

“Pyro.” The boy reveals, letting a small fire burn at the tips of his fingers. “Or we could just burn them.” His lips split open in a grotesque grin.

“Pyro, these things need discussion. Come meet me at the senate tomorrow. I feel you might be of use to our cause…” Erik works such magic with words; Pyro composes himself. “In the meantime, my friend and I must take our leave…” A single tug to Charles’s arm.

“Who is your friend?” Pyro steps up. Charles wants more than anything to hide. “He’s shaking…”

Several more voices are raised in interest.

“Very observant of you, Pyro.” Erik, so unruffled, drawn to full height; Pyro shrivels in response, the fear that he has overstepped his boundaries getting the better of him. “My friend’s identity is not important to the cause. Good night.”

Erik steers Charles, the crowd parting enthusiastically for them. Neither Charles nor Erik look at each other till the park is a small slip of a light in the distant darkness.

**ii**

That night, Erik can’t bring himself to be impatient. He coaxes Charles out of his fight, letting him cry and snarl in turns. Right up until he gets close enough to grab Charles.

“I was worried you’d say something stupid. Your usual ‘let’s all live in love’ bullshit.” Charles, weaving and ducking tiredly in his hands. “If they got wind of who you were-“

“You did it on purpose!” Charles sneers, his sob caught in his throat. He hangs limp, maybe hoping that his weight will work against Erik’s strength.

“What is it I did on purpose, darling?” Erik tries to set him back on his feet. This conversation is only mildly interesting to him as opposed to the sex on offer. Though, Erik would love Charles’s reading of the hatred leveled at his creed.

“You knew what was going to happen in the park…you took us there deliberately!” Charles heaves the words out, struggling to pull away. He succeeds only in tipping both of them to the floor, Erik on top.

“You give me too much credit, I only wanted you to see how free mutants are now.” Erik, now eagerly picks at Charles’s clothes. It’s funny how well wrapped Charles is, sweaters, shirt and so on. Already fine red lines rake across one side of his face, the rug will not do his skin any favors: “Charles, calm down. This is going to happen. Do not make this hard on yourself.”

A wild thrashing, though not enough to unseat Erik, pretty much covers Charles’s answer: “No. No. No. No.”

“Charles,” Erik straddles the body beneath him, “remember, Jean and Ororo are next door. Calm down. If Jean picks this up, Ororo will too. And then we’ll be dealing with the storm of the century. You want that?”

“I don’t care!” Charles cries. “Get off me.” Of course, Charles cares enough that he’s probably already closed his thoughts down.

“Charles….” Erik eases some pressure off to make his point. The leeway allows Charles to flip around, just in time for Erik to hold him down by his wrists. Erik waits for the tremors in his breath to die down, stroking Charles’s hair kindly: “Look at how you get, Charles.”

Erik lets himself slide over Charles; their faces are inches away. “They’d have killed you right there. The things they wanted to do…”The skin on Charles’s neck is hot under his tongue, and pebbled at the sudden contact.

“I wish they did…”Charles says this so fiercely, eyes screwed shut against Erik’s meditating gaze.

“I kept you safe.” Erik says, mesmerized by the lines of tears streaking down his jaw. Everything smells so wonderfully like Charles. “I’d have killed them if they touched you.” Erik nips at his lips, sighing low. “No one else, Charles.”

“Get this over with.” Charles says, ultimately caught out of grace. Erik smiles endlessly.

**iii**

Charles’s lip is cut open, the blood dried and tasting old in his mouth. The mirror tells him where exactly; all he has to do is stare, and run his fingers over the spot, again and again. He ignores Erik sauntering to, fixing his covetous hands on his ribs. The touch is definitely harder than he’d have liked. If Erik wants to know, Charles could tell him just how breakable his bones are. Erik lets his chin rest on Charles’s shoulder, considering the expanse of the body laid bare before him in the mirror. Misleadingly intimate, Erik can be when the worst of his cravings are sated.

“That was you…” Erik says sleepily and needlessly appreciative. “You bit into your lips.”

Charles nods and traces the cut with his tongue. And a second later, he wishes he hadn’t when he sees Erik alight with possibility. He slaps instinctively at Erik’s hand. It earns him a laughing kiss on the neck, and a reprieve. Though, Erik is still there, with his face pressed to his shoulder.

“This is your pattern, do you realize?” Erik waits for an acknowledgement that never comes. “You throw everything you have, including the kitchen sink, at me…and then you’re just…you’re all mine.” Charles juts forward breaking away from Erik’s embrace. And mercifully, he is not pursued.

“I am not yours.” Charles says into the mirror because it is easier than telling a lustful Erik. His cut lip smarts. “And my pattern, Erik…is this.” He points to a particularly bad bruise on his side. “I fight and then I don’t fight, because you hurt me till I can’t fight.”

“That doesn’t make you not mine, Charles.” Erik lips softly into Charles’s skin, his finger ghosting over Charles’s lip.

“You’re right. My god, you’re right. I can’t walk and I certainly can’t sit down without being reminded of the things you do to my body. That does make me yours.”

Erik laughs vigorously this time: “Incorrigible.”

“Funny, you should call me that…” Nothing good will come out of irking Erik. Still if it gets his point across. It must have been slightly efficient; Erik steps away, letting him pull his clothes on.

**iv**

Erik imagines Charles’s ire raining down on him; Remy Le Beau twirls and decks his cards without a care in the world, his feet happily stretched on Erik’s desk.

“Tarots, my friend, assuredly you need to be pickin’ one…come on, don’t ye be scared. Pick a card, any card.” Le Beau says, the careless flourish of his words ending any faint hope that he is intimidated by Erik. The cards themselves are held out casually between his fingers.

“That one…” Erik twitches his hand nonchalantly in the general direction of one.

“The merchant of Smyrna.” Le Beau has a raucous twang of a laugh; the hairs on the back of Erik’s neck stand up in warning.

“So what’s in that mysterious bag on your shoulders, mighty Magneto?”

“Nothing you want to carry around yourself, Mr. Le Beau.” Politeness, Erik thinks, is a good defense at the moment. At the very least he’s learnt so much from Charles.

“So I take it you know exactly what I would want to be carrying around, then?” At the sharp end of the sentence, Erik can peel back all of Le Beau’s affability. There he can sense good old intent and maliciousness.

“That makes for too much speculation. I’d rather you told me what your demands are.”

“Mostly, I wanna fight.” Le Beau grins handsomely. “I wanna blow up some human sons-of-bitches and then fuck their bitches. I need me some ammo, and some rank and I need humans.”

Of course, that’s want he wants. Spoken like a true psychopath.

“I’m sure I can accommodate that.” Erik will keep his tone in, coolly detached. “All I need in return is-“

“Whatever you want, general, you can have off of me.” A madman’s promise, Erik is familiar with those.

“That is all I ask.” Erik states, clipping his voice.

Le Beau laughs, swinging his feet off the table and leaning towards Erik. “How’s the hunt for Mystique movin’? She’s a funny lil’ doll, ain’t she?” Hardly a fair estimate of Mystique, but Erik can overlook it.

“You fought for her in New England, didn’t you? When she drove Trask out from hiding?” Erik will take anything he can get on Mystique.

“That brave blue belle almost single-evenhandedly ended this war that day in New England.”

“Too bad she’s the one single-handedly driving this war now.” Erik spurns. “She’s aiding human rebels, training and arming them.”

“She’s just out an’ out cuckoo…from being so many different people all the time.” Now that might be a definite possibility. “Any right mutant knows what I did was artsy. She acted like I’d gone off and killed her baby.”

Artsy. Twenty-one blown up in a sidewalk café because Remy Le Beau wasn’t served tea and cakes. Erik nods: “Artsy, definitely.”

“I mean, man, that feeling…I knew right then where my calling lay. And it was in no church.”

Erik laughs to think of Charles if he ever met Remy Le Beau. Maybe Erik should arrange a rendezvous. But no, even he is not so cruel. And certainly not to Charles.

In the end, Le Beau, newly employed in the First Mutant Regime, lets Erik keep his Merchant of Smyrna card which only serves to make him uneasy. He stuffs it into his pocket, possibly prepared never to look at it again.

**v**

Charles paces endlessly; McCoy takes up the smallest space possible in a corner of the living room, as if that makes him less of an intruder. Jean occasionally sends Charles tiny pulses of joy as she and Ororo run in and out of his study, playing one invented game after another. Charles’s feet keep moving, pulling him from window to refrigerator to the apartment door. A procession of frustration when there is no way out. Only Erik ever opens the door. Perfectly metaphoric in a sense. Without thinking twice, Charles presses his palms onto the cool wood of the door.

“That’s not going to open…” McCoy fumbles out, discomfited.

“What’re you doing here anyway?” Charles scowls, not needing for once to be reminded of something so honest. He is viciously pleased to see McCoy’s face fall.

“I’d like the chance to study the girls’ mutations-“ McCoy begins with the ease of something that has been thought out well beforehand, Charles knows.

“I know what Erik asked you to tell me…I mean, what’re you really doing here?” Charles prompts with a little less vitriol.

“I-umm-I…listen, I don’t want trouble…for me or for you…” McCoy shakes his head softly. “Can’t we just..you know…”

“No, I do not know…” Charles leans against the doorframe now. He can feel some stray splinters and roughness, strange he should never have known about this otherwise.

“Magneto doesn’t think you should be alone-“ McCoy speaks carefully as though Erik might be listening in.

“With the children?” Charles finishes. His eyes scale McCoy for a response.

“He doesn’t think you should be alone. Period.”

“So, Erik left you here to babysit me.” Charles’s own lips stretch apart in a strange smile which has nothing to do with the fact he’s burning up inside. “And I suppose you think he’s effing wonderful for all this?”

“I don’t think anything-“ McCoy blushes, averting Charles’s fuming gaze.

“No, you really should think. He’s left you here to make sure I don’t kill myself.” Charles says in the most cutting voice he can manage. With Erik, it’s always laced with fear. And at any rate, Erik would not greet it with confused silence or shame like McCoy does.

“He’s left me here because he wants you to be alive.” McCoy could be spouting gospel for all his reverence.

“He fucking wants me alive in his bed. Period.” Charles can hardly tack down his breathing.

“But he wants you!” McCoy’s voice trills.

Jean and Ororo throw their heads out from the study door. This is hardly a discussion Charles will have them privy to. So he begins his pacing anew, whispering as he passes McCoy: “No truer words have been spoken, my friend.”

**vi**

Pyro seems to enjoy Le Beau’s company alarmingly well. Together they trample through what is left of Trask’s concentration camp. Le Beau touches odd things that glow hot and burst into flames, just so that Pyro can then set fire to the rest of it without conscience. Erik can almost see a random flurry of limbs and teeth falling from the sky in the near future.

“I wonder if they’ll name their kid after you…” Angel comments, observing their progress warily. Her hands tremble slightly as she pulls a body free from the rubble.

Erik shakes his head sadly: “They’ll probably also want me to be the fairy fucking godfather…” He turns the body over to examine it. “This one looks weeks old…at least.” Clearly, Trask has done a good job running.

“You’ll only have yourself to blame.” Emma says, softly disapproving.

“Who am I to stand in the path of true love?” Erik knows how he sounds; though who is to say Emma isn’t blaming him for the dead mutant at their feet.

“Speaking of true love…how is your little C. Xavier?” Emma’s grin is split open like a frog, and twice as unsettling. Erik smirks it away.

“I think it’s safe to say Trask hasn’t been around for a while…” Azazeal deflects happily. Erik must remember to promote him some time soon.

“I didn’t really expect to find him here…” Erik grants.

“We might at least bury some of these bodies…” Angel looks around and Erik realizes they are surrounded by mangled bones and dead mutants.

“Pyro and Le Beau will be pleased to arrange a cremation.” Azazeal shrugs. And Erik has to admit despite the yawning misgivings he has, that it will have to do.

**vii**

Ororo yells for Charles, the moment the TV blanks out: “C. Xavier…look!”

Charles finds himself staring at a masked woman on the screen. Behind her is what looks like the bullet riddled wall of a cellar, and a writhing bundle of clothes. It’s almost fifteen minutes later that her voice comes through the static.

“This is M.M. This is M.M.” The woman repeats in a hoarse voice.

“What is going on?” McCoy, obscenely curious, plops himself down in front of the TV.

Jean tugs insistently at Charles’s shirt until she is picked up and tucked safely by Ororo’s side on the kitchen counter.

“I am a human…” M.M says. “Magneto, Emma Frost, if anyone who is anyone in the FMR can hear me…I am a human…And I am not Militia. We are not with Trask…”

A shrill cry erupts, breaking her mid-sentence. The woman gasps, turning away from the camera to peep into the clothes.

For one terrifying moment, Charles imagines that another mutant baby will be slaughtered on television.

“Jean, Ororo…go inside. Now, please…” Maybe Charles’s nervousness brokers no argument, the girls file quietly into the study, not even complaining when the door is closed behind them.

“Hush, hush darling…” M.M soothes, lifting the baby along with its clothes into her arms. Charles can see the child’s face, mangled. “Magneto, this is a human baby. She is dying. If you will not allow humanitarian aid into the Boston slums, she will die. She’s done nothing to deserve this death. She and thousands of civilians, humans, await this one last mercy…we have no doctors, we have no medicines…she is dying of a common wound…I pray you see it in yourself to be merci-“

The transmission jumps back to the scheduled movie without even a hint of anything out of the ordinary having occurred. If it weren’t for McCoy, Charles might have been concerned for his sanity.

“Damn, they probably went offline before we could trace them…” McCoy swears.

“Who are they?” Charles asks incredulously. “She said she’s not with Trask.”

“M.M. usually transmits on radio frequencies, mostly from Boston. There’s a pocket of the human resistance holed up there. So we put up a blockade. She must have found a way to hack into our satellites…” McCoy fires off, pausing only when Charles’s disturbed expression registers.

“That baby is dying.” Charles shakes his head. “You’ve got to help…”

“This might be a ploy to have aid delivered. We can’t be sure of anything until the human resistance surrenders officially. And if you ask me, that isn’t too far off.”

“It might be too far off for the baby!” Charles realizes how stretched out and fraught he sounds. “That’s someone’s child.”

“Our hands are tied…I don’t see Magneto okaying anything other than their complete surrender…”

Neither does Charles.

**viii**

Every bit of Erik smells like burnt flesh. Who’d have thought there was so much to torching the dead?

When Angel sidles up to him, he thinks about throwing her out. But this isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. With Angel, he doesn’t need to think too much, not with all her eagerness. That is, until he does think about blue eyes and compliance.

“You called me Charles.” Angel accuses.

“I apologize. Clearly, you’re not Charles.” Erik folds his hands behind his head for a pillow. He thinks he must have Charles instead of Angel.

“Is he that good?” There is a rumble of hurt in Angel’s voice.

“Does it matter? He’s not here. Only you are.” Erik smothers her body. “Angel.”

Angel sleeps with Erik for revenge this time.

**ix**

A single tear bites at Charles. And like with everything, he lets it have its way in the dark.

**x**

There’s always someone waiting for Erik. And it never seems to be Charles, he rues.

“What is it now?” Erik’s caustic enquiry only ever draws a tight smile across Emma’s lips.

When she answers, it is with dalliance: “What indeed, Erik! I was merely wondering if you heard about the latest Mystique sighting…”

“It’s closer to our position than I’d like.” Erik deflates slightly, letting the chair take a little bit more of his weight.

“Worse. She might be headed for Boston.” Emma says with an air of dispensation.

“No. She will never join Trask.” Erik declares sharply.

“Erik, there are people there who are not with Trask. They’ll rally around her.” Emma makes circles in the dust. Erik has just enough sense not to want to touch anything in the room.

“They’ll never trust her enough.” He says with undue confidence, humans will do anything to survive.

“Desperate people do desperate things. You should know well enough by now.” Emma makes the words appear prophetic. “And honestly, all she has to do is pretend to be human. She’s done it before.”

Erik’s skin crawls at the thought of being human. The rest of the conversation is lost.

**xi**

It is what it is, Charles reasons. Erik is a man of the crowd. Mutant, alien, or as is the case today, human, doesn’t matter.

The camera pans and all Charles can see on his screen is Erik’s face, severe yet somehow more distant.

“You are civilians all…” Erik begins, the amplifier making his voice rumble like thunder. Charles remembers it rumbling like that against his skin as well sometimes. “I have kept my word. Everyone who has registered can now go back to your lives. Back to your jobs and your homes…” A murmur of appreciation from the crowd; this is the sound of a bad victory.

“Mutant Liaison Officers have been placed in all major offices and companies. Your bosses will report to them and you will follow their orders. As long as lines are toed and our law is kept, we will be peaceful…we will allow co-habitation…remember, this is entirely conditional…every last inch of freedom given to you is conditional-“

Charles is relieved that M.M cuts across the feed before Erik announces his conditions.

**xii**

Erik ignores Hank’s hasty expression of general goodwill.

"You have a human to get off the air...Emma said she took up a good part of my speech. That's the sort of thing that makes us look incompetent."

Hank's exit is patently hasty after that. He is not who Erik expects will welcome him home anyway.

Out of disappointed pettiness, Erik lets the bedroom door spring open with much too force.

Charles looks crumpled, mildly awake with a hand around Ororo. Jean is already sitting up and scrutinizing Erik, stranding him at the door.

“J. grey says C. Xavier hates you…” Ororo says matter-of-factly, crossing her arms out across her chest.

“Ororo…” Charles says in warning, trying hard not to hint fear at Erik, and being so wonderfully exhilarating at the same time.

“That does sound like something he would say.” Erik walks in with a smile. After all, he is happy to see Charles. Without stopping in his tracks, he slips the helmet off. The truth is he feels weaker now without it. Exhaustion snaps at his muscles. He drops to the edge of the bed by Charles’s feet, and immediately senses Charles drawing inwards. He unfastens the cape and lets it pool messily on the floor.

Charles sighs a little, possibly worried about what is to happen once Erik is undressed. Erik fishes his boots off, letting them fall precisely on top of his cape. “I’m dead beat done…” He announces, looking over his shoulders at Charles, who stares back with carefully arranged curiosity. More than anything when Charles’s eyes shutter in weariness, Erik wants to hold him.

“What’s that?” Ororo points and Erik can see the top of LeBeau’s card, haphazardly peeping out of his pocket.

“This? This is something cool…” He draws the card up against the light. Even Jean wanes in her hostility to watch.

“A tarot?” Charles asks in his dream rumpled voice; Erik thinks he’d always want Charles to say his name in that voice. Always.

“Right you are, C. Xavier.” Erik beams, noticing instantly the way Charles’s eyes level down and away.

“Is it magic?” Ororo asks with eyes wide and reminding Erik of once looking at the moon the same way.

“No, it’s just a card.” He admits, offering it to Ororo, who receives it in reverence and good faith.

“Can I keep it?” Ororo pulls at his sleeves, glancing between him and Charles.

“It’s yours now, O. Munroe.” Erik laughs, falling perfectly exhausted into bed by Charles. Again Charles withdraws his skin and any future of a touch.

“Look, Jeanie…” Ororo dangles the card at Jean like some sort of bribe. Jean wrinkles her face before ducking into Charles’s cuddle. At Erik’s side, Charles sucks in his breath and closes his eyes.

Erik is happy for all of a minute as he drifts into sleep.

**xiii**

Charles sneaks out to the couch at dawn. Erik is quick to follow, stumbling. There Charles has to resign to the heavy arm draped across his waist and the hot breath on his neck.

“You’re not going to do anything about that baby, are you?” Charles has his epiphany.

“No one did anything about millions of mutant babies...they didn’t even have the excuse of War.” Erik’s voice is soft, hardly argumentative; must be he thinks there is no argument to be had.

“Her blood will be on your hands…” Charles prods. Surely Erik sees that if not anything else.

“There’s always been blood on my hands, Charles.” Erik simmers, his free hand taking Charles’s, stroking each finger as though in comfort. “It makes no difference to me.”

“Nothing makes a difference to you.” Charles states and waits for an answer. There is none to be had from Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Merchant of Smyrna is a Tarot character from T.S Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. He's one-eyed and perpetually carries a bag of goods on his shoulders. Perfect for Erik, don't you think?


	4. The Man Who sold The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait!

**i**

Charles lets the water drown his skin, cool under the shower. No doubt he’ll feel clean for a while. About later, he determinedly refuses to think.

The frosted window pane in his bathroom is cracked just where he remembers. His palm wraps around an imaginary shard, replaying a million times over in his head the enormity of his failure. How easy would it have been to kill Erik, then? Run the jagged edge of glass across his throat and soak in the warm blood. This is the weakness that defeats him, Charles realizes.

As though to shatter the first wretched scream that breaks free from him, Charles punches at the wall. It’s ugly and fast, the pain.He falls, crying, to his knees. Holding the injured hand close to his body does little to numb the echoing sting.Worse, the shower runs on, unimpeded. He coughs, breathing in the water and swallowing some.

When he reclaims his presence of mind, Charles finds a more comfortable position to curl into; his one good left hand wraps gingerly around the tap, turning off the shower and possibly saving him from suffocating under it.

His right hand is a rare shade of red along the knuckles. It burns where the force of his punch has torn skin. He expects it will swell considerably badly in the matter of an hour.

It’s not the pain alone he is anxious of; it’s Erik. Defending himself has been virtually impossible with both his hands in play. How is he to stand up to Erik with one of his hands in tatters?

A single knock on the door announces Erik: “Are you done?”

Charles imagines he’s been listening in to the silence long enough to be worried. Or maybe Jean has connected to the worst of his agony, sulking and cueing Erik in.

“Go away, Erik.” Charles can’t help that his voice is a little hoarse. That couldn’t make his demand any less imperative.

Erik’s lack of response must mean that he is conflicted; he must either not particularly want to engage with Charles’s meaner side or he senses that something is slightly amiss. Either way, he is contemplating a course of action, and that is reason enough for Charles to stiffen in his stance.

“Ten more minutes…I fixed cereals for the children…and coffee for you…” The domesticity of the statement is upsetting. More so because Erik seems to have assumed that Charles is in fact simply trying to provoke him. This must be Erik’s version of a high road.On the other hand, he is under no obligation to take the high road.

“I hate coffee.” Charles grits out, the pain spiking randomly.

“You hate-?” Erik sputters disbelievingly. “That’s all you’ve been bloody drinking since I was here.”

Charles would give an arm to see the expression on his face. But then again, that analogy is in poor taste at the moment.

“I hate you and you’re still fucking me everyday…coffee’s not half as bad…” The triumph will carry its own costs, Charles knows well.

“Ten minutes, Charles…even if I have to carry you out myself…”He can tell from the ups and downs in Erik’s voice that he is walking away.

Charles stands uneasily on his feet as the last turn of footsteps fade. In that deranged calm, he measures out words, threats, rebellions.

But Erik is long gone with a promise to return.

**ii**

13 minutes and 45 seconds. Erik clocks Charles’s great act of defiance. And his poker face is far from perfect; he’s seen his own hands bloody from beating at intimidating doors far too often to mistake this for anything else.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, I would love to know…” Erik states quietly, his displeasure immanent.

“That’s not your power, Erik.” Charles retorts without looking up. He wraps the gauze around his knuckles, pausing in discomfort every now and then.

Charles is right, Erik’s power is handier. This is precisely what he demonstrates, hauling Charles’s chair up and trapping him too close: “You know exactly what my powers are, Charles.”

It won’t be long before Charles realizes that his maimed hand is tucked up in Erik’s hand, held there carefully by the wrist. Instead, his blue eyes are distant and bright, striving to hold the first tears at bay.

“You do realize there’s nothing stopping me from tying you to the bed and leaving you there…” Frightened is just how Erik likes Charles. “Why must I chance you harming yourself again?”

Charles shrinks back and decides wisely against it, understanding exactly where his hand is caught: “Please, let go of my hand. You’re going to hurt me…”

A grin spills over, uninvited, on Erik’s lips. Does Charles think this is some diplomatic crisis, he can end with a polite appeal?

“No, I won’t be hurting you. I’m simply making a point…” Erik drops a tender kiss, smelling the blood on the knuckles more than anything. “If I find a mark on you that I personally did not make, I assure you there will be consequences you do not like.”

And consequences, Erik would be happy to remind Charles, are his specialty.

**iii**

Charles huddles in a corner of his study, at the window where the light isn’t too bright. All he can see at that angle is a peeling billboard, thoroughly vandalized. Though from the silence, it’s fair enough to imagine that the streets, as they have been for the past week, are painfully empty. Not that he’s exactly dying to go out with Erik again.

Once or twice, Jean presses into his thoughts, an uncomfortable weight there.

“I just had a little accident…” Charles smiles weakly. It is only half a lie.

Ororo, unaware as she is, smiles back before returning to the drawing she’d been pretending to do. Jean frowns, settling cross-legged by Charles’s side.

“I’ll be better soon, I promise.” Charles sighs. A brief pain explodes in his hand and vanishes just as easily. “I just need a little time, darling…”

Jean nods once, smiling wanly.

The numbness Charles feels is suddenly more familiar than disturbing, and a little less like sadness.

**iv**

Fire skims just about everything Erik can spot for yards ahead. Trees, houses, cars, children, it doesn’t matter; everything burns the same.

“What’s the count so far?” Erik broods at Emma who in her feckless white looks ridiculous against the destruction.

“Twelve…” She calls as he moves within earshot, volunteering what little she knows of the death toll. At her feet, a lump of ash stirs and goes still. “Well, this makes it thirteen, I guess.”

“Thirteen and a bloody thumb…” Erik exclaims, dropping to his haunches. He counts four charred fingers on one hand but not a thumb.

“He’s taken a souvenir, Erik.” Emma stumbles backwards, repulsed. “Fuck.”

Erik thinks about the Merchant of Smyrna card and Le Beau’s grimy laughter: “Find Le Beau. I don’t care how you do it. Find him…”

“Erik…the humans are going to call for our heads…” Emma is rarely wrong about what sends people over the edge. “This is precisely the lack of accountability they keep harping about.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.” Erik snaps. “Find Le Beau, Emma. We can deal with the humans later.”

“If you say so…” Emma turns away, her countenance skeptical. “I’m just betting Trask’ll have enough supporters for a new army by noon…and just so you know, Pyro is missing too…”

Erik can already sense the first of the news cameras flashing at him, alone by the exploded skeleton of a car.

**v**

For a moment, Charles is disappointed that M.M. is not on the screen. It is only a second look that tells him the blue woman in the TV is unquestionably important in the scheme of things; she is Mystique, after all.

McCoy’s O-gape of a scowl and his consternation undeniably mean trouble for Erik; an eminently good thing as far as Charles is concerned. He wraps his good hand around Ororo, holding her tighter than he really needs to. His excitement must permeate Jean’s consciousness; he can see her animated now.

“This is the last time I will talk to you, Erik.” Mystique says, both terrible and majestic in the gloom of M.M.’s den. “I saw what you did in Germany. You turned a democracy inside out. That’s not equality. That’s power. So read my lips, when I tell you this: Let the humans go. You have shown everyone what mutants can do. Now let them go back and repair their governments. Chase after Trask, chase down the mutant murderers, but stop going after every human you see. You weren’t always this rabid!”

“How is she even broadcasting? I shut down everything on M.M.’s frequency…” Hank murmurs, possibly crestfallen at the thought of having to face Erik later on.

“What Schmidt did to you…he destroyed anything human you ever possessed. And not just when he made you kill your mother, no.” Mystique continues hoarsely. “That was just the beginning. He made you when you killed him, Erik. You are what he is. And no one who is Schmidt should ever be in power.”

“What is she talking about? Did Schmidt force Erik to-” Charles squares disbelievingly on McCoy, knowing he will never be able to say it out aloud. “Did he…?”

“I don’t know…” Hank is on his feet, blinking anxiously at the TV. Mystique’s skin seems to shimmer: “I won’t stop until you’re dead or I am. Step. Down. Or. I. Will. End. You.” She transforms into a short, squat man and the transmission ends.

“I gotta…Oh, man…” McCoy fidgets, punching out numbers on the phone. Ororo and Jean watch, fascinated by his floundering.

If Charles ever thought he knew what Erik is, he isn’t so sure anymore.

**vi**

Erik wonders what it is about his profession that surrounds him with mad men.

“Magneto, my team and I were under the impression that this mission was authorized…” Victor Creed declares, stepping around a burnt block of concrete. Behind him, a few soldiers lurk, clearly caught on the backfoot.

“Your impression was wrong…Le Beau was not authorized. You were not authorized. And this…” Erik sweeps a begrudging arm to survey the extent of the damage. “…mission, as you call it, was certainly not authorized…”

“But he said…goddamn it, he said he had a lead on Trask…and he needed to be sure before he reported it to you. An’ he wanted a team to go in with him and Pyro…and it would be too late if we waited.” Creed wrings his hands in a gesture of futility.

“Meaning no one even thought about fucking clearing this with me!” Erik growls, melting a bent mailbox even further out of shape in his frustration.

“But more importantly, what sort of lead?” Azazeal lunges forward, putting distance between Erik and Creed.

“A former senator…Kelly…you remember, he’s the guy who made the mutant registration bill…apparently he had something going with Trask…” Creed scratches his head. “And the kind of firepower Kelly had for our welcome party, I am inclined to believe Mr. Le Beau. And Angel tells me they found large quantities of teleblockers…Only the Militia’s got access to that stuff other than us…”

“I suppose we can always tell the humans their Militia was involved…” Erik consoles himself, thinking more and more about explaining this to Charles.

“I doubt that will satisfy anybody.” Azazeal breathes.

“Well, at any rate, Iceman and Rogue, over there, saw Le Beau and Pyro drag a guy out of a house. That’s the last time anybody saw him for sure. And then he blew all of this shit up…a little warning would’ve been nice. Toad was almost fried.” Once again, Creed tapers off.

“Have the bodies been identified?” Erik asks Azazeal, waving a disgraced Creed away.

“The Chief Medical Officers are all humans…we had to pick them up from the camps. They’re comparing dental records, right now.”

“I have a feeling Le Beau got what he was looking for. Let me know when you can recognize the Senator’s body.” Erik mumbles.

Out of the corner of his vision, he can see Angel creeping towards him shadily. “Umm…Erik…there’s news…” She begins, waiting to gulp down air before continuing. “Mystique made a public TV broadcast today. It looks like she might be in Boston.”

Erik’s throat tightens; anything to do with Mystique couldn’t possibly be good news.

**vii**

“Magneto remains unavailable for comment…” A mousy reporter mourns.

The visual changes dramatically. Charles makes out a long line of smoldering bodies, and Erik, worse for the wear, wheeling around to stare at the camera. It is a shock of an encounter; the outrage that erupts on Erik’s face, his hand flung out in retaliation. Everything spins on-screen and ends in a sickening crunch. Charles prays it’s only the camera.

The reporter is back: “Our sources and eyewitnesses at Astoria Lane have however confirmed that heavy gunfire was exchanged with an armed group before the actual explosion took place. FMR top brass earlier today blamed the Human Militia for the attack.”

Emma Frost is as belligerent as Charles remembers. It’s almost easy to mistake her lack of emotion as stoicism; he sees it for what it dangerously is, a telepath tearing into unsuspecting minds, clawing open secrets and knowledge. He feels that peculiar twinge of misery thinking about his own powers. But maybe it is also just his hand.

“What happened at Astoria Lane was regrettable…our squad was on routine patrol when the Militia ambushed them, with little success obviously…I do however wish that all those innocent lives could’ve been spared…” Frost ends with an icy smile that must be intended to translate into sympathy.

The next shot of the reporter has her walking along a desolate playground, the swings fallen in a crumbling heap. Charles wonders for a moment if Ororo and Jean have ever been to one.

“Contradicting reports also suggest the incident might be linked to Mystique’s re-appearance. Though this too has been denied by the FMR…” The reporter stops at what is left of the fun slide, barely enough to recognize the structure in this case. “What is clear at this stage, is that there are over forty casualties, 38 of them human, some as young as three months old in Astoria Lane…”

Charles is aghast as he seeks out McCoy’s eyes: “When is this going to stop?”

“We’ll get Trask and the rest of the militia…and Mystique…though I’m hoping we can negotiate a truce with her…and then maybe…” McCoy weighs in, pensive.

“Then maybe, we’ll have peace?” Charles shakes his head incredulously. “End all wars?”

“Peace, yes…but not in the way you mean it…we’ll still have enemies.” McCoy crosses his arms defensively.

“War is peace…” Charles remembers, an unbearable tiredness descending upon his body.

**viii**

The building is all but toppled. Erik revels in the asylum it offers, the silence it allows. God knows there won’t be any left for him, should he step out now.

Maybe Charles, docile in his bed or fearfully pliant, now that would help. Erik struggles not to smile at the thought.

A shadow flits across the torn window. Every sinew on Erik’s body rears in tension. He is aware suddenly of the metal edges, dull and otherwise, around him.

“Hardly an office befitting the leader of the First Mutant Regime…” Angel’s wings rustle tellingly, chasing away the soot that alights on her.

“You know better than to sneak up on me.” Erik grumbles, undoing his powers climbing on the metal.

“You always know when it’s me, Erik…” Angel purrs, leaning on the far wall and gazing serenely at Erik.

“And the one time I don’t, there will be metal sticking out of your throat. I won’t warn you again.” Erik sneers. “Now, get out of my sight...”

Angel narrows her eyes: “My, my…Mystique does bring out the worst in you…”

“Angel…” Erik rises to his feet in a buzz of washed-out rage. “You do not know the worst of me…”

“Well, no. You’ve reserved that bit of you for Charles Xavier.” Angel is painfully beautiful in the shadows.

“Leave him out of this.” Erik is patently incensed.

“I’m the last person to judge you, Erik. For Charles, and for everything Mystique said you did…” The unsolicited earnestness confounds Erik; Angel might as well have seared his name into her skin.

“Go. Away.” He orders stately.

“If you want I can tell Emma that I couldn’t find you…but she wanted to discuss something important, I think.” Angel walks away with a lingering glance.

Erik follows her out into the mayhem.

**ix**

Everything plays itself out deliberately. The lock coming loose in a flash of red light and heat, M.M.’s voice in the background, Charles’s hand trapped safe in a numbing bowl of ice, Ororo playing with the gauze. In the lull of a second, the door hangs imperiously by the hinges; just as well, seeing as to how absolutely no one knocks at his door anymore, not when his permission counts for exactly nothing.

Charles’s mind is blurry with fear, some of it his own. Some of it is Jean’s as she leans terrified on his leg. It doesn’t help that McCoy is cowering in a neutral corner, opening and closing his mouth in quick succession.

A man swaggers in, unmindful of the splinters that crunch beneath his boots.

Amidst the ringing in his ears, Charles is suddenly conscious of M.M. on his TV. “Magneto, I beg you…we had nothing to do with Mystique. Please, please, please…this baby is dying. She doesn’t have more than a few hours…”

The man steers a misbegotten leer at the screen, and later at a balking Charles: “Don’t she make fine primetime viewing?” His tone tapers into an accusation.

Charles is too stricken to answer. The man’s Cheshire cat grin envelops anything he might have to say for himself.

“He was the one with Magneto.” An angry voice supplies.

It is Pyro, lurking in the doorway. It’s too late to retreat into calmness; Charles takes a begrudging breath, then this is how it should all end, how he should end.

“You don’t say…” The man licks his lips, making a beeline for Charles. “Remy Le Beau, at your service.”

And Charles has no more movements left in him. Jean’s awareness binds him like a vice till he can’t think straight. He trembles as Le Beau tips an imaginary hat, tethering his impossible attention to Charles’s hand.

“I say you can always trust a man with scars…” Le Beau lifts a creased over paper bag from his pocket, waving it in Charles’s precise direction. “An’ Hank over there ain’t got any.”

Charles waits impatiently for Hank’s intervention, and it never comes.

Just as the lemon green texture of the bag is thrust at Charles, he sees the copper blotches. Mostly the acrid stench of rotting flesh hits him. His bad hand, obedient enough to rise, halts in the air betraying his hesitation. Pyro makes a noise that frankly alarms him.

“Don’t be foolish…” Le Beau warns, his free hand twitching and revealing his initials tattooed on his wrist, R. Le Beau, it says. “You don’t wanna be foolish with me.”

The hint of violence there is startling. It ebbs slightly as Charles works his fingers around the bag, taking it as steadily as he can.

All is forgiven. Le Beau smiles instantly and Pyro is already turned away.

“It’s the key to everything, you be sure to tell Magneto just that.” Le Beau says, raking his eyes over the disarray of Charles’s knuckles. “Tell ‘im it’s all at 45 Pier Point…I’ll meet him there at dusk tomorrow, no later.”

Charles chokes on the affirmation he intends to provide, delivering a perverse and strangled note of agreement.

Le Beau’s gratification runs deep, it would seem: “I jus’ hate leavin folks disappointed…pick a card, why don’t you?”

The tarot deck is familiar enough as Ororo’s severe appreciation reminds Charles. Ignoring Jean’s forbidding grip on his thoughts, he drags the tip of a good finger to the curt edge of a card.

“Warrior of Light, the Phoenix. You are one to watch for.” Le Beau guffaws, making it clear it is not that immense of a compliment. “Phoenix or not, best be on the winning side, buddy.”

A reprimand then, highlighted by Le Beau insidious inspection of his TV screen, which has gone static without anybody noticing. Charles is a little too lean on determination. He swallows as Le Beau gaze turns to a nearly catatonic Ororo sparing her half a wink and a toothy grin. If he notices Jean, he does not care to comment.

“Been a real pleasure…” He calls, stepping away with contempt. “Not like ole’ Astoria Lane, mind you.”

The bag is heavy in Charles’s mangled hand.

**x**

Erik has made a life out of pretending to be immune to the very worst.

But this is Charles swinging an already bloodied fist square into his jaw. The impact is unacceptable; Erik stumbles backwards, permitting Charles a sense of improbable victory.

But then the empty stretch of space between them does not deter Erik; he careens limberly at Charles, carefully wrestling him down: “That was uncharacteristically stupid of you, darling.”

“You brought him here. You fucking brought him down on my home.” The tears pooling up in Charles’s eyes are incessant. “He gave me a thumb…he had a thumb in his goddamn paper bag.”

“Hush…it’s over. You’re safe now…” Erik measures out the litheness of Charles’s body against his own, the myriad things Charles’s slight quivering is doing to his concentration.

“What do you know about safe, Erik?” Charles snarls, rage brewing easily in his eyes."You couldn't keep your mother safe!"

Erik's fury is effusive; it spans the coarse agility with which Charles's hair is yanked back and the time taken for Charles to go woefully still.

“You don't know me, Charles. You think because Mystique let you in on my past, you have weapons to fight me? You should know better than anyone, you're safe because I keep you safe..."

“Safe or not...” Charles says, braving the slow brewing fear in his eyes. "You can't keep me forever."

Erik laughs in lieu of a proper response, roughly releasing Charles from his hold: “Even you know better. Emma will be here tonight. Do behave for her..."

And he damn well intends to keep Charles forever.

**xi**

“You’re a survivor.” Frost says in a deep rumble of discontent. “I thought Erik would snap you like a twig. But here you are…swung at him twice, tried to slash his throat…and somehow still alive. Erik Lehnsherr’s murdered people for far lesser offenses. I am impressed."

Charles shakes his head, disconcerted: "I can't do this...I'm...I can't." His voice is intentionally low so that it does not carry to Ororo or Jean. 

“Charles, listen well. I won't be repeating this. Erik is a petty dog chasing cars. He wouldn't know what to do if he ever caught one. It's suicide to think you'll outrun him. All you can do is survive."

Survive, Charles etches into his brain.


	5. How to Save a Life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Turtlepearlove for inspiring many a plot twist, reading countless drafts, sharing in the angst and always, always being there...

**i**

Charles is empty of most thoughts; gazing back into Erik’s fever pitched eyes is not an option, not when there’s so little but conviction and lust there. Erik leans in, pressing his warm forehead to Charles’s shoulder. 

“I’m ending this war.” Erik claims, resplendent.

“You’re going to need a halo.” Charles murmurs, turning his face away. 

“Oh darling, hardly…” Erik laughs, sneaking two resolute fingers on either side of his jaws and forcing a level glance. “I only needed a thumb.”

It’s hard to miss the token signs of a good mood on Erik’s face. His jaws are set at ease, not jutting in disapproval. Even his grasp on Charles’s face lacks its usual thread-bare viciousness. Still to be reminded of the thumb, and more obviously with the lemon-green bag, complete with the same copper blotches sitting on a tray of ice in his immediate view. Charles reckons it’s a little more than spiteful on Erik’s part. It’s that mercenary need to intimidate. 

“I won’t have that in here.” Charles protests, as though he can claim great victories with the strategy. 

In reply, Erik lets the soft wash of his lips slip over Charles’s. Nothing can defeat his intentions: “I can’t let it out of my sight. It’s the key to everything.”

“Spoken like a true blue psychopath, Erik.” Charles’s voice is not as vitriolic as he intends it to be, though hopefully cutting in all the right places. “I’ll thank you to stop touching me with the same hands that handled a bloody thumb.” 

“It’s Senator Kelly’s bloody thumb.” Erik sounds a little entertained. 

“Good for you. Do thank Le Beau for the souvenir.” Charles pushes at Erik’s smothering hold on his jaw with his bad hand, more out of instinct than good sense. A stabbing jolt of pain runs across the broken skin on his knuckles. 

“Don’t be silly, Charles.” Erik sighs, rolling his eyes for effect, though gracious enough to let a wincing Charles free. “The prints we pulled off it open all of their biometric locks down the Boston front. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have taken down Trask.” 

“You’re going to kill Trask…” Charles is fearful enough that Erik lowers his eyes to watch him placidly. 

“I’m going to strip the flesh off his bones and I’m throwing his eyeballs to the crows and the rest him to dogs…” Erik spreads each image out, one tumbling exquisitely after another. “And I want the world to watch.” 

A chill descends rapidly down Charles’s spine; isn’t this why he wouldn’t stare into Erik’s eyes in the first place? Only the fire of his belief burning far too bright, or desire woven out of obsession, only these are ever there in Erik’s eyes. 

And Erik, as clever as he is, notices the long-drawn silence: “Not your way, I suppose…But then what is your way?” 

Charles shakes his head, eager to bury the attention elsewhere; let it extend to less harmful matters than the abject differences in their principles. Though not particularly in the direction Erik’s hand deigns to take – pulling a chiefly hesitant Charles closer to his chest. 

“I don’t want to fight…” Erik whispers, swallowing the frailty of Charles’s body with his. “All I’m saying is the man deserves everything coming to him. Though… given how he’s handling his M.M. problem and what he did to that baby, I’d have expected for you to be on my side.”

“What do you mean?” Charles asks, aware of the sharp pitch of his tone. 

The words themselves have registered badly. Erik starts and stops, brows wrinkling with confusion: “I…” 

The sentence goes nowhere, being marooned immediately in the middle of a suspicious silence.

Charles has gone still. Trust Erik to trap him there, ignoring the quaint good hand put up to deter the advance. 

“How long have you been locked up in here?” Erik asks, finally toneless.

Long enough, Charles wants to say. He remembers Frost and a bandy of words exchanged with her, Ororo and Jean asleep as the night slips past and then lying face down in his bed, until Erik’s a presence there. He’s been here far too long then. 

“I don’t understand…what’s happened to the baby?” Charles says again, propping himself up on one elbow.

Erik is stunningly reluctant, using Charles’s distraction to guide his bad hand into Erik’s palm. The gesture is well and truly lost on Charles whose thoughts are parsing frantically between dread and many, many nightmares.

“I need you to be calm…” Erik is merely asking something of Charles and even when it is gentle, the order is almost a whip taken to him. 

“Don’t. Erik…” Charles trembles with despair. “What happened to the baby?” 

“I need you to be calm.” Erik repeats bluntly. 

But Charles is beyond calm; a terrible certainty fills his head. 

**ii**

Erik doesn’t always wrangle with philosophy. It’s not in his blood. 

But even he sees the absolute truth of Trask’s statement: “Mercy isn’t what it was three years ago…” 

But all Charles does is let his body slide into catatonia, his glossy eyes fastened to the dirty pool of clothes mewling by Trask on the TV screen. 

“You really don’t have to watch this…” Erik suggests, tired of meeting Trask’s dead-eye stare. 

But then, Trask, impenetrably gaunt in the terrible lighting of M.M’s basement, must make for spectacular entertainment fodder. Every last news channel lets his video run on a loop, enthused experts call out the particularly savage dimensions; and Charles etches it onto his memory. 

“Mercy isn’t what Moira McTaggert here, has been trying to sell!” Trask crooks an authoritative finger. 

Always, always at this point, Charles’s breath goes shallow. Once or twice, Erik is certain he heard the name said softly in reverence and grief: “Moira…” 

The sturdy man who yanks the unmasked, agitated M.M around to Trask is unnecessarily violent. Erik can’t imagine the frail brunette putting up any resistance.

“Did you think I’d let a treacherous bitch like you sabotage my war?” Trask hisses with vitriol. “You’d rather lick the dust off mutant boots than suffer for your human brothers and sisters!” 

Erik is more interested in the logistics of the video, of course. The fact that it confirms Trask’s presence in Boston, the slight limp that slows him down as he circles the baby, the faces in the shadows, the different voices echoing Trask’s hate in the background. All ultimately meant to lead him to victory. 

Charles clenches his bad hand, Erik notes, even when he knows what is coming. Erik consciously relaxes his stance. 

The rest of it is summarily dispatched of – Trask reaching into his military coat and pulling out a standard issue gun, pausing casually before taking aim at the baby.

“This is the mercy you refused to show her…” Trask says so quietly that Charles tips himself forward. 

Erik has half a mind to pull him back. 

And then everything is one irrevocable roar; it’s the gunshot echoing in Erik’s ears, McTaggert screaming and Charles’s harsh breath. 

“I’m not going to make it this easy for you, McTaggert. You are going to be a perfect example.” Trask pockets his gun in an elegant gesture. “In fact, I dare every FMR scum, every pro-mutant sympathizer to tune in at 7 tonight. I doubt you have the balls.” 

Erik is busy watching Charles unfurl his fingers one by one.

 **iii**

The undoing when it happens to Charles is curious. It trails the heels of stone-cold numbness as Erik flicks the TV off with an irritated wave of his arm. 

“If you didn’t see this coming, you’re naïve beyond help.” Erik sighs, going down on his knees at the sofa by Charles’s feet. 

“What does that make you, Erik? You saw this coming and you did nothing.” Charles allows the bitterness to show. 

Erik's willful finger flits out to the M scar on his back; the first touch is electric, Charles jolts with awareness. 

“And what would you have done? Hid her little bones in your wardrobe?” Erik is alive with uncanny intuition. 

Charles is too stung to cry. He settles for a bland statement: “That was unfair.” 

As if any of his interactions with Erik have ever been in the same vicinity as fair.

“It isn’t a fair world out there. You, of all people, should know…” Erik is as sober as he would be to a chided child. 

Charles crosses his hand, and presses his back to the sofa; this is as far away from Erik as he can get at the moment. 

“Just to be crystal clear, Erik…It’s not the world I blame.” Charles’s voice drops to almost nothing. “The world didn’t take away my powers and lock me up.” 

“True…I’ve been heinous.” Erik nods, inspecting Charles’s face minutely. 

“You’re mocking me.” Charles retorts. “You think I’m weak for not slitting your throat when I had the chance and weaker for actually sitting here and discussing this with you as though it can all be talked through.” 

“You have me all figured out, don’t you?” Erik smirks. 

“You’re not as mystifying as you’d like to be.” Charles buttons his gaze down. “You’re drunk on power and you’re brutal. It’s a potent combination and much more common than you’d think. So yes, Erik. I do have you figured out.” 

“That’s all very clever, darling. It’s you I can’t quite figure out.” Erik stretches forward into the space between them. “You could have turned every mutant hater in this city inside-out with a thought. Instead you hole up in here and let them carve you up. And you act like it’s noble.” 

“I’m sorry if revenge is your only gift, Erik. I’m. Not. You.” Charles shakes his head emphatically. 

“You and I, we’re more alike than you know.” Erik bows his head and guides Charles’s good hand to a spot at the back of his neck.

Just below the hairline, Erik’s tattoo screams 214782. It’s so utterly unremarkable that Charles is hardly surprised to not have spotted it long before now. 

“See, I have my marks.” Erik remarks, calm even as Charles’s enquiring fingers spread out over the smooth black ink. 

“The German camps?” Charles asks remorsefully, pulling his fingers away. 

“Warsaw.” Erik corrects, looking up immediately. “And my souvenir’s bloodier…” 

Charles reels with an unhealthy sense of prescience. Erik pulls out a rusty coin from one of his pockets. Everyone knows how Magneto killed Schmidt. Though, the coin is rather shiny for a piece of metal that’s been violently lodged in a man’s brain. And much too light, if the wobbly way Erik levitates it is anything to go by. 

“Erik…” Charles calls, hoping it will stall the coin in its path. 

And it does, leaving it to turn slowly in the air between him and Erik.

“Schmidt broke my mother…she was begging to die in the end. So he offered a Pfenning to the other prisoners to put her out of her misery. No one did. I prayed and prayed for someone to, but no one did…and I had no other choice.” 

Charles sees little emotion, much less sadness in Erik’s face. He fears the same emptiness is on his own face as he speaks: “And he gave you the coin…because you k-killed your mother…” 

“We’ve been hurt in our turns. Like I said, we’re not that different. Except that I avenged my marks and you chose to sit on your hands and watch.” Finally, a flicker of derision hits Erik’s tone. 

“You really think that excuses everything you’ve done to me?” Charles is incredulous with fury. 

“And what have I done?” Erik draws the coin back; Charles can hear the air whistling as it is split by the metal.

“I know you took the things that mean the most to me.” Charles wills himself to speak, struggling to be in control. 

Erik is peering into his eyes as though he can see the damned yearning for a shard of glass and that dogged pain in his hand: “You never fought hard for a single thing, Charles.” 

Simple and terrible, this is just how Erik moves to cut the jugular. 

“You better hope to God I never get off this fucking serum. The day I do, Erik, I will show you how I fight.” Charles knows he looks pathetically desperate. “Who knows, I might catch you without your stupid helmet and your two-pills a day teleblocker!” 

“And what if you don’t? What if I have my helmet and my teleblockers, Charles? What then?” Erik smiles cryptically, letting the tips of his thumb sit uncomfortably on Charles’s throat. “I like this game as much as the next man and I’m sure we can both go at the possibilities all day long, but it’s far beneath you.” 

“Nothing about this is a fucking game. That child is dead and M.M. is next!” Charles wails, threading his way free and landing clumsily back on the sofa. 

“Still tripped up on M.M.” Erik growls, pinning Charles down with a rapid arm across the chest. He must have meant to trap the good hand smartly beneath Charles’s body. “Fine, let’s get real then.” 

“Erik, get off…” Charles strikes out wildly with his injured hand. 

“Just how far would you go, Charles, to rescue M.M?” Erik asks, driving the worst of his weight onto the arm that lay across Charles’s torso. 

It drives the air out of Charles’s lungs: “Stop…I can’t…” 

“Answer the question.” Erik eases off, satisfied that Charles is subdued for the moment. “How far would you go for M.M.?”

Charles does not answer immediately. He takes a ponderous minute to gulp down air and another minute or so to comprehend the actual question.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Charles admits, panting. 

“I mean I’m willing to get M.M. out safely, provided…” Erik pauses, considering the impossible widening of Charles’s eyes. “Provided you give me what I want.”

There, said with forethought and plenty of malice. 

“No.” Charles replies in a flash. 

What Erik wants is unimaginable. What Erik wants is an eternity. 

“No? Just like that? I’d have thought the great M.M. deserves more…” Erik’s eyes are a trick of the light, dancing and shimmering unabashedly.

“Damn you, Erik…whatever you want, my answer is bloody No!” Charles is ashen with righteousness. 

“Whatever I want?” Erik laughs, a little incensed. “Don’t go playing the fool, Charles. I want you!” 

Charles slides back into himself, shaking his head and blinking his eyes rapidly. 

Erik takes his time sizing Charles up, before asking: “So if you know what’s coming for M.M. and you do nothing, what does that make you, love?” 

And Charles, crying quietly, is caught hook, line and sinker.

 **vi**

Erik is on the last of his frayed nerves. Charles is quietly huddled on his bed, possibly still inconsolable and wet-eyed. He can’t know for sure, but that might have been Charles’s point with locking the door. Erik does not force the issue though he might very well have wrenched the lock out with a flick of his fingers. 

And so he is here, in the kitchen, wrestling with eggs and toast, making small talk with the children: “Sorry about the late breakfast…I’m not half as good as Charles with this.” 

“Where’s C. Xavier?” O. Munroe asks from atop the kitchen counter. “J. Grey says he’s sad.” 

“Tell J. Grey to please stay out of his head.” Erik requests, breaking open an unfortunate egg far too violently. 

O. Munroe swallows audibly: “She doesn’t want to. She’s scared. She says C. Xavier is really, really sad.” 

Erik turns rather soberly to J. Grey, who’s already withdrawing further into her plain corner of the drawing room. 

“Darling, C. Xavier is fine. He’ll be safe in there and nothing will hurt him.” Erik says softly. J. Grey does nothing, seizing up and hugging herself as Erik sits cross-legged on the floor before her. 

“And you’ll be safe. Charles and I kept you from harm this long, didn’t we? That’s what I’m going to do today. I’m going to put an end to the people who want to hurt you.”Erik wonders if Charles can hear him. “That’s why he’s sad. He doesn’t want me to hurt those people…but if I don’t, they’ll come for you and O. Munroe and Charles…he doesn’t see that…” 

“E. Lehnsherr…” O. Munroe calls, probably picking up something tangible from J. Grey.

Erik throws his arms out, solemn with expectation: “Jean…it’s alright. Let’s get you something to eat, okay?” 

Seconds turn over as J. Grey battles her distrust. And just as she is at the tips of Erik’s fingers, the distinct if raucous crash of Azazeal’s arrival alarms her. She scurries away into the study without the hint of a backward glance. 

Erik jumps to his feet exasperated: “For Pete’s sake!” 

O. Munroe hurries off her perch, bringing down some of Charles’s fine china. 

Erik rushes to her side, scooping her up effortlessly and examining her feet: “Are you alright?” 

She trembles expressly and her silver mop of hair quivers. 

At the kitchen door are the silhouettes of Emma, Azazeal and a third person, still engulfed in smoke. 

“You do still remember how to knock?” Erik directs some of his real ire at Emma. 

“You do still remember there isn’t much of a door to knock on since your dear friend Le Beau’s come around visiting.” Emma parries excellently. “I was rather certain Charles wouldn’t let you forget.” 

Erik affixes a stern gaze on the strange woman with them. There is an aura of iron-willed temerity emanating from her, something that Erik is not sure he likes. 

“And where did they dig you up?” He asks, deeply offended that she does not squirm under his direct attention. 

“Meet Elizabeth Braddock…she’s here to babysit the children…and Charles Xavier, of course.” Azazeal clarifies before the woman can answer. 

Erik grunts an affirmation, gently placing O. Munroe back on her feet: “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

O. Munroe glances nervously at the broken pieces of bone-china gleaming on the floor: “I’m sorry…” 

Erik squeezes her into a hug, kissing the top of her head: “Go to the study with Jean…I’ll take care of this.” 

O. Munroe tiptoes away.

And Elizabeth Braddock does not bat an eye. Nevertheless, this is hardly how he wants to meet a future employee.

“Braddock is a powerful telekinetic…” Emma says, knowing better than to comment on what she just witnessed. 

“I also have some level of telepathy…” Braddock adds with timorous confidence. There is hardly anything resembling compassion in her voice. Maybe she is perfect for the job, Erik reckons. 

“Meaning she could knock out Xavier if he’s planning on giving her any trouble.” Azazeal shrugs, adding hastily. “He won’t feel a thing.”

“That’ll hardly be necessary.” Erik is uncomfortable at the thought of leaving Charles at Braddock’s mercy. “He’s not going to be trouble and he’s certainly not combative.” 

“Tell Xavier that she has no problems leaving him drooling on the floor if it comes to that. He won’t want the children seeing something that disturbing.” Emma suggests.

Erik thinks he can see animation on Braddock’s face: “Ms. Braddock, this is no license. You will have me to answer to.” 

“That’s so kind of you…” Charles ridicules, half-hidden in the strategic shadows by the bedroom door.

Erik whirls back around to face him: “I was merely trying to make sure you aren’t hurt.” 

“Like I said, that’s mighty kind of you.” Charles leans on the door frame.

“Meet Charles Xavier…flavor of the season…” Emma says unkindly. 

“That’s enough, Emma.” Erik retorts, noticing the deep welling of hurt in Charles’s eyes. 

“This is Elizabeth Braddock. She’s going to be your sitter, obviously we can’t spare Hank. She’s quite up to speed with the…situation…” Azazeal informs Charles. 

“Marvelous.” Charles smolders, walking to the study where he must guess the children are. 

Erik does nothing, letting him stride past in a scathing rage. It’s only when the door to the study shuts fast that he moves to face Elizabeth Braddock. His stance is meant to daunt. 

“Were you in the war?” He asks. “In Germany?” 

“Yes. I was in your army. My team was ambushed by Schmidt at Dusseldorf.” Braddock recounts without empathy. “I was the sole survivor.”

Azazeal is tense with foresight: “Dusseldorf is not something we are proud of.” 

“It was wartime, I’m certain Ms. Braddock knew what she’d signed up for.” Emma cuts across crudely. 

“Just as I’m certain she knows what she’s signed up for now.” Erik decrees, leaving no room for doubt. 

Elizabeth Braddock cocks her head with consummate ease, somehow managing to leave Erik largely disturbed. 

**vii**

Charles imagines he’s skirting some kind of thin edge right then. Maybe falling over will wake him up and he’ll be asleep on his bed on a Monday morning, with the alarm wailing in the background. Wishful thinking. 

Jean scours incessantly through his mind, looking for the source of his rather palpable misery. 

“Maybe if I fall over this edge, I’ll never be sane again.” He murmurs to her in the face of her relentlessness.

“What’s this say?” Ororo asks, picking up a book that’s barely holding together. 

“Let’s see…” Charles smiles, stretching his hand out. “This…this is one of my absolute favorites, love.”

Jean stops her furious thought burrowing and looks eagerly at him. 

“Shall I read it to you?” He asks, quirking his eyebrows into a ridiculous arch. 

“Yes, yes, yes…” Ororo jumps into action, swinging her arms up and down. 

Jean wriggles closer, practically hopping to a stop right by Charles. Something of a query erupts on her face. 

“C. Xavier…” Ororo nudges him tentatively. “J. Grey wants to know if you’ll be less sad when you read it?” 

Charles sees the edge hover closer: “We won’t know until we try it, will we?” 

Jean nods seriously, setting herself up with a pillow and a good spot on the floor. 

Ororo leans excitedly across his legs: “Let’s try it, then.” 

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen…” Charles begins, disguising the slow rasp of his tone with a pause. 

He ignores the immediacy of the voices that waft in at him from outside the room, the occasional snatches of Erik’s voice and Braddock’s urgent replies.All of it is beyond him, he understands. 

**viii**

It takes all of twenty seconds for Erik to recognize Pyro’s sulking form in the considerable throng of soldiers, and another thirty to isolate him in a hapless corner of 45 Pier Point. 

“How nice of you to visit Charles…” Erik hisses. 

The first metal that responds to him is a broken cable. It lashes easily across Pyro’s chest like a greedy snake, before the man can even think of a defense, much less gasp for air. 

“Be quiet!” Erik demands, tightening the cable and cutting off Pyro’s muffled cries. “Did you really think you could walk into my house and threaten-“ 

“Magneto…let ‘im go. It’s me you want.” Le Beau offers, walking out at his leisure.

Erik lets Pyro drop in a heap onto the ground: “Don’t worry, Pyro will live. But if you and your boyfriend ever pull anything like this again, you will regret it.”

“You’re the boss, boss.” Le Beau bows low. “But I trust Kelly’s thumb has been plenty useful.” 

“I haven’t killed either of you, so clearly it’s been useful.” Erik returns stormily. 

Whatever sense of security Le Beau walked in with is dampened considerably. He steps cleanly aside for Erik to pass: “Glad to have been of help.” 

Erik basks in an insane iota of contentment.

**ix**

It starts out as a gut feeling for Charles, the niggling sense that something is out of place. 

Firstly, it’s the fact that Erik is still here, mere hours away from combat, locked in a huddle of undertones and whispers with Braddock. When has Erik been one for subtlety? 

Or perhaps, it’s the unsure way which Erik’s eyes follow him back and forth as he walks out of the study to get some food for the children. There is a hint of elusive mischief there, as though something monumental was staring Charles in the eye and he’d missed it like a fool. Jean hangs tightly to the tail of his shirt. Charles realizes she must be more keyed into his thoughts than he’d considered. 

“It’s all right, Jean. We’ll just get you to something to eat and go back in, yeah? It won’t do to go a whole day on empty stomachs.” He murmurs quite aloud. Mostly he sees Braddock’s displeasure and wants to mitigate any untoward reaction. 

Ororo ambles closer to Erik, whose posture tightens. No matter what his predispositions towards domesticity, never once has Erik shied away from Ororo and Jean. It hurts Charles a little that he should know as much about the man. 

Braddock scrunches her face and clicks her tongue impatiently: “Get back to your room, kid. I’ll tell you when you can come out…” 

“I’m just getting them some lunch.” Charles says frostily as Ororo turns on her heels and runs to him. “They haven’t had anything else the whole day. I’m quite certain you didn’t finish with their breakfast, Erik.” 

“We heard you the first time.” Braddock answers sharply. “Get what you want and take them back inside fast. I won’t repeat myself.” 

Charles glares at Erik who seems surprised by the venom. 

“You have five minutes.” Braddock says again in a note of warning. 

“Let them take their time.” Erik says pointedly, his hands clenched on the cover of the arm chair. 

“You let me handle this!” Braddock pipes shrilly and Erik sinks back with a dirty look into his chair. 

How idiotic of Braddock to insult Erik – It’s one thing that Charles does it when it is extremely clear that Erik wants him alive, but another matter altogether to instigate a war of words with the man when Braddock has only met him hours beforehand. 

But the emotion, for Charles, slips into confusion, and then further into suspicion. 

Erik is scowling violently but there is no cheap issue of bodily harm in the expression. Nothing so much more brutal than annoyance. 

Once Charles sees it in its entirety, the sheer audacity of what’s happening leaves him breathless. 

“Erik…” Charles puts his theory to the test, his body wandering into the kitchen like an automaton and reaching for the right pitcher of milk, pouring exact amounts into three glasses. “Remind me the conditions of your deal?”

For a moment, it is just Erik staring at him in outright acceptance; something Charles has never seen on him. 

“I know who you are.” Charles says, suddenly more hopeful than sure. “I need your help, please.” 

Braddock’s lips hang trembling in dismay. She fidgets and glances between Erik and Charles. 

“Stand down, Betsey. Let those girls back inside.” Erik advices confidently. 

Jean and Ororo are aware of an event going awry, only unable to fully comprehend its significance. 

“Jean, Ororo…” Charles says slowly, handing them plates of cookies and the glasses of milk. “Erik and I have to have a chat.”

Jean’s eyes brim over with apprehension, something Ororo shares with practiced ease. 

“Do not open that door for anyone but me…” Charles whispers softly as he guides them to the door and locks it down. 

And as he turns back to where Erik is, there is a flash of blue scales.

“Mystique…” Charles recognizes with relief. 

**x**

The map is spread out generously before Erik; a cloud of FMR colors except for the patch of Militia grey in the middle. 

“We enter through this side…this gives us easy access to all of our main targets in the city.” Hank circles the blotch with his finger. “This little black line, these are four of their biometric gates. They’re just meters apart. Our people in Boston confirm that Kelly’s prints open them. ” 

Angel waltzes to Creed and the other team leaders, handing them packets: “These are films with cloned prints from Kelly’s thumb…Do not lose them. They’re bound to open any scanner or lock you come across. If they don’t…well, improvise.” 

“I certainly will…” says Havok, just near Erik’s earshot and a shudder of laughter ripples through the soldiers in the room. 

“At any rate, we will have the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting that we have the means to infiltrate their technology.” Emma says in a rousing tone. 

Erik looms forward, tapping a red dot on the map repeatedly: “This point, right here, this is where Trask will be. The centre of the city. We’re already picking up broadcast signals from within this radius. Security in this zone will be tight as you can imagine.”

“Which is why, comrades, we will first surround that area and then attack. It’ll be like a nice little rat trap. All of them, gift-wrapped in a box.” Azazeal might literally smack his lips. 

“But first, let’s go through the plan one more time…” Emma says, gesturing at Le Beau. 

“I team up with Havok an’ his people, and we take out the patrol on those four gates…” There is no hesitancy on Le Beau’s part. 

“During which time, Creed and I, along with our teams will use the prints to enter the city.” Erik runs an alert finger along the map. 

“After which, I will take my team and head south into this area…” Creed adds, sweeping an arm along a stretch of dotted lines.

“And I take my team, and head north to bypass this Militia unit, here…” Erik completes. “My team will reach this point where our agents will meet us and guide us to within striking distance of Trask.”

“I wait ten minutes and enter the city, and head straight for their communication centers here and here…” Azazeal nods at Emma. “My team and I have exactly twenty minutes to secure the facility and get Hank into their systems.”

Hank rubs his hands gleefully: “As soon as I’m in their mainframe, I will relay the information to Creed and Magneto…and to you, Emma.” 

“I will join Havok’s team and we will make for Trask directly through this residential area…” Emma swipes a line on the map with her forefinger. “And Creed…”

“Will hold my position till Azazeal meets with us here…” Creed says with a crooked smile. “And then we head onto the showdown.” 

“Mission time is 6.30-6.40…we will have about twenty minutes to storm Trask’s party.” Emma speaks into the awed silence in the room. “Erik, your team’s play…” 

“Now, our team will have effectively taken out any cheap targets from our position.” Angel steps to, nearly resting her thin body close to Erik’s. “Which means we will be your emergency response team. We will have chosen vantage points for you, we will notify you of immediate perils to your positions.” 

“Once we’re in the middle of it all, it’s anybody’s game.” Erik glances around. “Surprise only counts for so much when you’re going to be outnumbered by three to one. This is why we time this to hell and back.”

“When we’re all on our marks, we charge…” Azazeal says, grabbing at the air in a fit of passion. “Let me tell you, Trask is worth everything dead or alive.” 

“And if Mystique should interfere?” asks the girl who Erik remembers as Rogue. 

Creed grunts with annoyance: “We kill her.” 

“She knows she’ll be helping Trask if she attacks us inside Boston. I’m pretty confident she won’t come out to play. If anything she might aid us from the sidelines.” Erik hopes he sounds sincere in his guarantee. 

Who knows what Mystique might be driven to doing in desperation. 

**xi**

Bizarre is one word for it. Here is Erik, every bit as arbitrary and dread in his ways, with his patent gestures and lexis. Only, as Charles reminds himself, it is really Mystique. 

But it is equally debilitating to listen to what she has to say now. 

“You have to understand, Charles. Getting you out now will jeopardize my whole mission.” She says briskly. “Plus there is nowhere safe you can be hidden. Erik is just far too well connected at the moment.” 

“Please, I can’t do this anymore…” Charles pleads. 

“Everything you’ve gone through…” Mystique begins in a raked over version of Erik’s voice, only to have Braddock snort. 

“What on earth do you claim to have gone through? You weren’t in the war. Do you even know what it’s like to be taken prisoner when nobody has the slightest inkling what a conscience is…and Magneto didn’t put you in the camps, did he?” Braddock is thoroughly indignant. “Do not presume that you have seen the worst of anything. I assure you, you have it better than your unfortunate pro-human ilk elsewhere.”

“Honestly, that’s…” Mystique attempts to mediate. 

Charles is suddenly aware of the trickle of an alien mind in his; only slightly less of an invasion than Jean’s forays, but there all the same, rifling through the most intimate of his memories and thoughts. 

“Get the fuck out of my head…” Charles says in a low voice to Braddock. 

But Braddock is strident: “You gave yourself up to Erik! Instead of the camps, you’ve got to lie down back and think of England…it’s a freaking fair deal, if you ask me.” 

“I said stay out of my head-“ Charles repeats with more anger. 

“You knew she was there?” Mystique asks and Charles can see the corners of Erik’s eyebrows flatten in interest. “How could you possibly still have use of your powers? You’re on the serum.” 

“Braddock’s telepathy is hardly more developed than Jean’s. I can’t very well unlearn what blatant mind-reading feels like.” It comes out far more brazen than Charles intends.

“Oh, touché…doesn’t really change the facts, does it?” Braddock shoots back, reclining on her seat, most likely hoping to hide the embarrassed red of her face. “You pimped yourself out!”

“I made a mistake.” Charles says, deadpan. “It was all happening so fast, I couldn’t even stop and think. I was too scared to say no.” 

Mystique sighs and slips into her own voice, leaning forward in a comforting motion: “Charles, look at me. Erik took everything from you, any freedom that you had. Whatever compulsion he chose you out of, is his and his alone. What choice did you have between a concentration camp and his bed? And, do not for a minute imagine that things would’ve been any different if you’d said no.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Charles mulls over, biting his lips hard. “All I know is you’re my best bet.”

“My hands are tied right now. My army is scattered, and I have no safe havens to take you to…” Mystique sweeps her arms out. 

“Erik means to take me apart…” Charles says, tearfully. “I won’t last with him.” 

“Oh, he means to make sure you last, my friend.” Braddock chuckles darkly. “He all but threatened to kill me if I hurt you.”

“I don’t know why he does half the things he does!” Charles pledges, sticking his bad hand out in fury. “I doubt Erik knows himself.” 

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s taken on quite an obsession with you…” Mystique ruminates, her appraising gaze lingering on an increasingly uncomfortable Charles. “And he is the sort of person who will see it through to the bitter end.”

“What does that mean?” Braddock asks, tweaking her lips to affect curiosity.

“It means Charles here needs to learn how to make it work both ways.” Mystique smiles, a smile entirely different from Erik’s. “Just because Erik set the rules, doesn’t mean you should play by them.” 

Charles is deeply uncertain as to what to make of this. 

**xii**

Angel is all about economy of movement, about litheness of the deceptive kind. All of it comes undone in anger. 

“M.M. is collateral! All you’ll be doing is risking our lives for a goddamn human.” Angel’s voice barely rises above the irate fluttering of her wings.

“Keep it down.” Erik hisses, rapidly gesturing with his hands. “We’re smack in the middle of enemy land.” 

Already he regrets confiding in Angel, worse to have done it when they are well into waiting for Hank’s confirmation. 

“Maybe that’s something you should keep in mind before you fucking go off and change our plans.” Angel snaps. “This operation just went from a complex hit on Trask to an insane rescue mission for M.M.” 

Somewhere up ahead, Avalanche glances back at them through the dark: “What?” 

“Hold your focus, soldier.” Erik orders sternly, watching Avalanche fluster at being the direct spotlight of his address. 

“You hold your bloody focus, Erik.” Angel continues in a low voice as Avalanche turns away. “M.M. is not our problem.” 

“No, she’s my problem. I don’t expect you to understand…” Erik says, in toneless exasperation. 

“Oh, hell! This is about Xavier.” Even in the faint glow of light, Erik can make out Angel’s revulsion tinted ever so vaguely with jealousy.

“Are you with me or not, Angel?” Erik demands, certain that this will be the last word on the issue.

Angel, full of spite, sighs: “When have I ever not been with you?”

**xiii**

Mystique is good with words, much like Erik, only more direct. Braddock, no matter how impervious she may want to seem, is swaying with Mystique’s persuasions.

“Remember, whatever Magneto can offer you, I can do better. Help me get into a position to take him on, and you could lead one of my teams…not babysit and do paperwork. You have it in you, I can tell. This is why I knew I had to seek you out.” 

“You sought me out because you had no other go…” Braddock angles away, coolly. But even Charles can see that she’s interested.

“And I assure you I do not use my own people as bait like Erik did in Dusseldorf. I was there then and I objected with all my might. And I object now. We look after our own. Can the great Magneto claim that when he’s busy locking up his own kind?” Mystique says, sparing a commiserative look for Charles.

“So I’m a double agent?” Braddock asks laughingly. 

“This is where Erik is nesting…Give me information that only you can.” Mystique quickly acquires a conspiratorial edge to herself with Erik’s deep voice. “His routines, his habits, anything with a pattern and anything that breaks that pattern, I want to know.” 

Braddock avows: “I can do that.”

“Is that what you want me to do, then?” Charles is keen, slipping forward in his seat. 

“You’d have the best view in the house, Charles...no doubt…” Mystique replies skeptically. “But it gets riskier if you’re actively involved. We weren’t planning on being discovered by you.” 

“And that is the understatement of the year.” Braddock rejoins grumpily. “I’m going to have to wipe out any trace of this meeting from your head before Frost gets here.” 

“And leave a big gaping hole in my memory for her to find?” Charles shakes his head. 

“The alternative is to leave it there and hope she doesn’t look too close.” Mystique is damnably quiet, possibly seeing the real possibility of confrontation here. “That’s not an option here, Charles.”

“No…blacking out the memory is not an option. Frost is good, there’s not a chance she’ll miss something so glaring.” Charles argues, clenching his fists together. 

“Well, what do you suggest instead?” Braddock’s tone is shrill in the universal sign of mockery. 

“Frost never seems to have more than a sense of what I’m thinking, or what’s in my mind. I’m guessing it’s because looking into me means looking into Erik.” Charles explains, nearly solely to Mystique. “So if we can make it murky enough…”

“Frost won’t have the balls to grope around deep in your head.” Mystique completes, not without an air of anxiety. “Erik wouldn’t appreciate it one single bit.” 

“You have no way of being sure! What if she decides to look hard, anyway?” Braddock swears under her breath. “If I get rid of this memory altogether, there’s at least nothing incriminating left.” 

“You mean nothing more than a void in my otherwise normal head?”Charles queries, poignantly. “And when she spots it, what do you reckon her first move will be?” 

“I’m with Charles. Frost will have it all pieced back together before you can say evidence.” Mystique’s words ring with finality. “And then, the FMR will have your head on a stake. Erik is big on retribution, you know.” 

The suggestion lolls out to Braddock, who with decisive flair dives into Charles’s thoughts, pawing at the memory and dragging it out heavily: “Fine!” 

“A little finesse wouldn’t hurt.”Charles grimaces, a steady pain building up in his head. 

“Charles…I know you didn’t fully understand what I said earlier…about making it work both ways…” Mystique puts up a hand to buy time. “It’s all about that one little chink in the armor. When Erik gives you that sign, you will know. When you do my friend, you set the rules and you hold on for dear life. That’s how you survive Erik Lehnsherr. And I promise you, I will come for you.” 

Charles falls worriedly silent. 

When it is clear that Mystique does not mean to intervene anymore, Braddock smirks and climbs back in with added enthusiasm: “And down the rabbit hole, we go.” 

**xiv**

Erik is all for the theatrics, it’s served him well in the past. 

The massive pyre at the heart of the city, lines of cameras and the militia’s flags flying in the air – he’s impressed against his will. But all his attention is given to M.M., now a forlorn figure in the din of the Militia supporters around her. 

“Fucking bastard…he’s going to burn her on the stake!” Angel swears, rather loudly. 

“Not if we get to her first…” Erik replies, thrumming with excitement. 

“The cavalry is at least fifteen minutes out, Erik…I don’t need to tell you there’s only ten of us, and about a three hundred of them…” Angel warns, sweeping an arm back on the soldiers out of earshot. “It’s suicide.” 

“Theirs’ but to do and die…” Erik mutters, and ignores Angel’s chastising look in favor of the first signs of decisive movement from Trask’s camp. 

**xv**

Maybe the television does take Charles’s mind off Mystique and the fifty-fifty chance of Erik discovering his treachery. 

Instead it is the coverage on Warren Worthington III that takes over his active thoughts. And it is not about the great white wings, or the precarious gait, as though he might fall over any moment; it is the tattoo on his forearm, _W. Worthington_. 

“Look, C. Xavier…white…like my hair.” screams a charmed Ororo, lifting a tuft of her own hair for proof. 

Without really meaning to, his eyes rake over the tattoo on Ororo’s wrist, and it doesn’t help to know there’s one on Jean as well. 

Somewhere in the background, Braddock huffs superiorly: “Marked him up for life, didn’t they?” 

Onscreen, the reporter prompts through the silence: “Warren? When did you know about your father’s involvement?” 

The wings twitch a little, as Warren slumps into himself quite visibly. But when he speaks, the syllables are clear: “I saw him with them…I was strapped down, you know, to a…a table and he just stood there, behind the glass with one of them and watched me…” 

“So you’re saying your father, Warren Worthington II, was actively involved with the Militia’s illegal experimentations on mutants?” The reporter prods.

“My father was wearing a suit, like the rest of them…” Warren looks at something far away, and then uncomfortably back into the camera. “There was this name tag. W. Worthington II, it said, on the suit…that’s how I could be sure…it was like he wanted me to know it was him.” 

The reporter thankfully doesn’t comment, instead letting the camera pan in onto a clearer shot of the tattoo. 

Charles swallows, running a slow hand across his hair. Somehow W. Worthington no longer seems important.

“Don’t be sad again…” Ororo insists, and Jean’s thoughts quickly turn into concern. 

“I’m not…” Charles protests, throwing in a small smile for good measure. If his moods are this predictable, hiding his involvement with Mystique might develop into a serious issue. 

“If she could see through your poker face, Xavier…we’re in for big trouble.” Braddock points out crossly, clearly thinking along the exact same lines. 

“No…it’s just…” Charles stammers, hesitant to confide in Braddock. 

“It’s just what?” Braddock says, looking particularly gleeful. “Oh, you thought it was an innocent thing…them calling you C. Xavier?”

“Stop it…” Charles growls as Braddock’s irritating presence fades in his head. “You don’t get to jump in and out as you wish.” 

Despite his best intentions to, he is rising to the bait and engaging Jean’s senses into the argument as well, by the feel of it. 

“It’s nowhere in the same neighborhood as innocent, you know.” Braddock finishes, possibly clued into the way Charles pales with apprehension. “It’s Militia training…they beat it into them…” 

“Enough…” Charles says, softly blinking. 

“So delicate, Charlotte…” Braddock says, smugly ignoring his antagonism. 

A flash of light from the TV cuts off Charles’s reply. 

“Look…” Ororo shouts, jabbing at the screen vigorously. 

The mouth of a burning inferno fills the screen, and a solitary M.M. dangles precisely above it as Trask looks on, jubilant. 

“Oh.” Charles’s lips pull a surprised o-gape, and go veritably still.

So this is how M.M. will die.

 **xvi**

The burst of energy is so sudden and all-consuming. 

Erik’s first instinct is to reach for metal, and yet nothing but cold trickles of his power touches him. 

“Magneto…” Trask says gruffly. “I’d never in a million years.” 

There is unabashed hunger in the way the man is circling him. Shadowy arms thrust him roughly to his feet amidst the smoke and the fighting. 

“Trask.” Erik acknowledges, with half a willful smile. 

“I can’t believe my goddamn luck…came here to burn M.M. and voila…” Trask impersonates a magician, presto. 

The cameras are quick to whir at Erik, moving past Angel and M.M. who’re tangled together in a heap on the ground. That could be Angel’s wings on fire, or it could simply be an illusion of light. Either way, Erik reasons, at least she’s not burning in the wretched fire. 

“Nice trick.” Erik parries for time, straining to work his way into anything metal. 

“High pitch amplifier blast…the effects are temporary but convenient…” Trask brags, un-holstering a plastic handgun. 

“We could do the usual routine…but aren’t we past all that?” Erik asks, casually as the camera pans closer. He wonders if Charles is indeed watching. 

Trask bares a riveting grimace: “The Leader of the First Mutant Regime, come to die with his favorite human?” 

“My favorite human is a dead one, I assure you!” Erik taunts, alerted gradually to a metallic sliver somewhere close. The hands that are holding him tighten. 

Trask raises his gun, with a feral grin plastered on his face: “Goodbye, Magneto. May you rot in hell!” 

As though on cue, Avalanche sets the ground rolling. Trask goes face-first, swept aimlessly off his feet just as his fingers squeeze down on the trigger. The bullet lodges viciously into Erik’s shoulders, sending him along with his captors to the floor. 

Erik does not give into pain, certainly not now that his powers come rushing back. With a swing of his arm, he sends metal shrapnel racing in all directions, impaling the bodies nearest to him. 

“Do your worst.” Trask screams wildly, already scampering away.

In the distance, Erik recognizes the first crack of Azazeal’s arrival and the ensuing panic.

“I fucking intend to!” Erik yells in a voice lost over the battle ringing out in all directions. 

**xvii**

Being defeated by Erik is outrageously worse than anything Charles can imagine. This he can say after the loss of countless battles, over sparser and sparser intervals. 

But what then of Trask who has lost the whole damn war? 

Charles watches the footage of Angel diving and pulling M.M. clear of the pyre, only to catch on fire herself. And a blur, now confirmed to be Erik, distracting Trask. And everything that followed, exactly as he saw it play out. 

“Breaking news…The FMR tracked down and defeated the Human Militia in an ambush attack on Boston earlier this evening. Bolivar Trask has been captured alive and is currently being transported to an unspecified location…we meet our correspondents on the site for the latest…” 

Charles rubs his fingers along his temple, creasing out the pounding headache that promises to visit him soon. Jean is a pointed weight across Charles’s lap, just docile enough to throw across his shoulders.

“Shall we go to bed?” He asks and gets an unenthused whine from Ororo, who is nowhere near drowsy enough. 

A familiar looking mousy-haired reporter squeaks: “We know that Magneto has sustained a bullet injury. While earlier reports suggested that it was lethal, new information has come in that it is not life-threatening or permanently impairing in any way. Though we can tell you, reports of human casualties are mounting by the hour…the Militia has lost more than a 100 soldiers…there have even been eye-witness reports of the FMR arranging firing squad style executions within an hour of official surrender…” 

“That’ll be us if Magneto ever finds out we met with Mystique…” Braddock says randomly, her expression morbid. “…provided he’s feeling lazy.”

“Then we’d better pray he never finds out.” Charles says more firmly than he has cause to hope for.

“In other news, Moira McTaggert, leader of the underground civilian movement in Boston, is recuperating in a military hospital after having been airlifted there along with several other FMR fighters including the unidentified flying woman who saved her…millions of well-wishers have sent either of them greetings and cheers. Emma Frost has denied news that McTaggert might head the newly formed human liaison department…” 

“I’m going to put them to bed…” Charles says by way of explanation to a listless Braddock, managing to lift Jean safely and beckoning a drudging Ororo at the same time. “This way, darling…it’s far too late already.” 

In the TV, a loud and slobbery man is talking to the reporter: “Magneto converted me…I wasn’t sure what to make of him. But he saved M.M. and he almost died doing it. Maybe humans do have a hope in the FMR…”

Charles is happy to slip the door shut.

 **xviii**

Emma is beside herself with rage, eyeing Erik with all probable intent of doing him irreparable harm. 

“It was a gut feeling and I had to take it…” Erik says, somewhat lamely. 

“We both know what you’re thinking with, Erik and it isn’t your gut.” Emma says in a riled voice.

“I agree it was a dangerous game to play…” Erik concedes. “But even you can see this works out beyond my…personal investment…” 

“As far as anybody outside of your team knows, you pulled an insane stunt, inspired but insane…I don’t see any of your people correcting that assumption. I mean, aren’t half of them dead?” Emma struggles to level her voice. “As for this working out beyond your personal investment…yes, there’s a sudden crop of humans who’re singing FMR hymns. And no, we’re not capping it off by putting Moira McTaggert in our administration.” 

“Emma, I know this could have gone belly up any moment…” Erik can see a flare of rage rising in Emma’s eyes.

“That is precisely it, Erik! You knew how horribly wrong this could end…even now…Spyke, Avalanche, Todd…dead. And Angel…god knows she’s lucky to be alive, let alone still own what’s left of her wings…” Emma thunders. 

“I’m sorry about the people who died, I am. I’m bloody well sorry about Angel…” Erik begins bitterly. “But I saw my opening and I took it…isn’t that what got us here, Emma? I can apologize and apologize –“ 

“We don’t deal in apologies, Erik.” Emma’s tone has a ring of finality. “Just that you should know…this little fancy of yours or whatever you want to call it with Xavier…it’s just the kind of thing that will bite you in the ass.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Erik says, a little unsure of what else to say. 

“No, you won’t…” Emma shakes her head. “Go home, Erik. This is big and if anybody’s earned a crazy obsession, it’s you.” 

“This is everything we always knew would come true.” Erik puts his arms tenderly around Emma, drawing her close enough to see the soot nestle in her hair. “We win.” 

“Fuck…we win.” Emma repeats, a malformed curse jostling with laughter. 

**xix**

Charles imagines that this is exactly where Erik would have liked to find him; curled up in his strict corner of the bed, eyes laden with more than sleep. And sure enough there is a distinct glint of cognizance in Erik’s eyes, leaving Charles with the impression that Erik is taking careful stock of him. 

It’s more of an instinct with Charles, than an afterthought now, to leave a leg trailing the edge of the bed. More balance to be had, should the occasion call for a hasty escape. 

“For a moment back there, I thought I’d never see you again…” Erik says in a feathery voice. This time he lets his gaze slip obscenely, tellingly. 

“So did I.” replies Charles, without missing a beat. It’s only fair the man warrants as much. 

Erik laughs querulously, moving forward and into the bedroom: “Well, sorry to disappoint.” 

Again the eyes flick to, almost as though Erik is going through a mental check-list in rapid fashion. 

“I know why you saved her.” Charles says, and for the first time, Erik is peaceful. 

“Oh, you do?” Erik mocks softly, wresting his gaze away from Charles and onto the mirror, disposing of layers of bloodied clothing in front of it. The wound on his shoulder is gory, many a violent shade running together endlessly – Erik winces slightly as he runs a trembling finger across the gauze and skin.

“That was for me, wasn’t it, you son-of-a-bitch?” Charles’s voice is heavy with demand. 

“It was inspired by you…yes…” Erik sighs, casting a gloomy look backwards in the mirror. “But we already agreed that it makes no difference to your current situation, didn’t we?” 

“Erik, please…I can’t live like this.” Charles pleads, trudging across the bed. “Just make it stop.” 

Erik turns, reflecting at length: “You know what you have to do to make it stop.” 

For a moment, Charles freezes, knees buried in a sea of blankets; Erik makes no quick movements, inspecting every inch of Charles from a good distance. Finally a satisfied look crosses his features as though he is at last, assured that all is well.

“If I say no, if I refuse…will you let me go?” Charles asks, flinching from Erik’s steady feet forward.

“No.” Erik answers with every ounce of sincerity he possesses. 

Charles can see the damages of the fight on Erik; he wonders if it’ll be all that hard to take him down, what with a bullet injury and some obviously rackety bones. 

“You’re wondering if you could fight me and win…” Erik recounts, reading Charles’s body language easily. “It’d be bloody hard, Charles. You’re nearly not vicious enough, and then there's that bad hand. Even then, if by some lucky strike, you do beat me…there’s Braddock outside, keeping guard at your door. And if you do get past her, it’s you and two little children out in the open. How far do you think you’ll make it before someone stops you?” 

Charles sinks neatly into the bed, resting his weight on his feet until Erik is hovering inches away: “I want you to know you’ve taken away every last choice that I had, Erik…” 

“Be mine.” Erik says, somehow loving and terrible in equal parts.

“If I say yes to you, Erik…” Charles is undone by the revolt in his head. 

“Say yes, Charles.” Erik is abrupt to totality. 

“If I say yes, Erik…” Charles starts over again, acutely conscious of things falling into place. “Then we don’t play by your rules, anymore.” 

There, trap set and sprung – Erik is scarily fast with his arms, latching onto Charles as though for surety. This is how it must come to be, then.

“Darling, are you playing me?” Erik asks, shaking Charles ever so slightly, as though the motion might knock sense into him. 

“Like I said, you’ve taken away every other option from me. This is all I have left to bargain with.” Charles stands his ground.

“And what exactly might your rules be?” Erik presses, and Charles can sense how intrigued he is. 

“I’m tired of being hurt, Erik. You won’t drag me to bed and treat me like a five-pound rent boy.” Charles gasps, tears sticking to his eyelashes. “You certainly will not lock me up in my own house. You can make up your own arrangements, but I will not be a prisoner here.” 

It takes only a benign flex of Erik’s arms to send him back down on the mattress, with Erik perfectly over him. This might be the beginning of a worse hour, Charles fears. 

“So many demands, Charles. Why are you so sure I’m not about to fuck you seven ways to Sunday, and be content with what I have?” Erik’s tone is serious without respite. 

“You could…” Charles admits it’s not outside the realm of possibility. 

“This is entirely conditional.” Erik and his madman’s promises, all over again. “If this is a trick…If you push me, Charles, if you give me any reason to, I will make sure you never see another free day…” 

“As if I’m free now, Erik…I know what I’m offering up.” Charles replies harshly, already concerned that Erik might be formulating new plans. “I have nothing to lose.” 

“I need to hear you say it.” Erik slides a little off Charles, permitting him the smallest movement upwards. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The best of Charles’s emotions have deserted him; if anything, there is only the dissolution of what he stands for. Once the seconds run past him, the words won’t matter to Erik and it’ll all be for nothing. Mystique will come back for him, Charles tells himself. 

“I’m yours.” Charles says, the meanings turning to ash. 

Everything goes numb, and a dark gravity goes to work, letting Charles drift to Erik. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait. Thanks to everyone who commented and left Kudos here :) You made my day, nay months even. Do let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> A clarification about Mystique: In this universe, she's fighting both Erik and Bolivar Trask. Her idea of utopia is more akin to Charles's version than Erik's. So she's collected kindred spirits and is currently helping humans escape Erik's tyranny. (She will be appearing later on).


End file.
